


Thistle and Weeds

by jkateel



Series: The Hunted [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amputation, Blood Drinking, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Serious Injuries, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 42,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5577916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jkateel/pseuds/jkateel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They escaped the island, but at what cost? Sam and Cas must come to terms with that question between bittersweet family reunions and dealing with their own emotional trauma. Set after <em>The Hunted</em>.</p><p>Set in a world where humans co-exist with angels, vampires, demons, werewolves, etc.; however, there are no supernatural/magical elements.</p><p>CURRENTLY ON HIATUS</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Survivors

**Author's Note:**

> Supernatural © Eric Kripke
> 
> This is a mini-sequel to [The Hunted.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1447786/chapters/3047170) Each "monster" from Supernatural canon are _separate and distinct flesh-and-blood humanoid species_. Artistic license was taken with how each species looks and behaves, with various nods to Supernatural canon.
> 
>  **This story is not told in a linear fashion for the first several chapters.** Please reference the notes of each chapter to see when each it takes place within the storyline.

* * *

_Plant your hope with good seeds,_  
_Don't cover yourself with thistle and weeds._  
_Rain down, rain down on me._  
— "Thistle  & Weeds," Mumford & Sons

* * *

Since she was six years old, Jess had only wanted to be one thing: A doctor. _Just like my grandfather_ , she liked to tell people. He had been a doctor in a midwestern small town, beloved and trusted by everyone in it. Jess had lived with her grandparents during the war (her parents off fighting), and she had spent many hours at her grandfather’s practice, listening to heartbeats to even help setting a broken arm once. Jess had fallen in love with it all, and from then on her dream life had been set in stone: She would become a doctor, and have a practice of her own one day. And along with that, she would have a loving and kind husband, wonderful kids, a nice house, a chance to live _happily_ ever after.

For a while, everything was going right too. She had met Sam in the first year at Stanford, and they had hit it off immediately. He was funny, smart and sweet (and _amazing_ in bed), and Jess had fallen head over heels for him. They had a lot in common — the same love for film noir, both history nerds, parents who had been in the war — and Sam wanted everything she wanted too. A career, a home, a family of his own. Sam was everything Jess wanted, and so they married, had the twins, bought their first house, worked to start their careers. Jess had followed her dreams, and they all seemed to be coming true.

With everything that had gone right in her life, Jess hadn’t been prepared for when it all went wrong.

Sometimes she wondered if she had had it coming.

Those were the dark thoughts she usually had the end of a sixteen-hour shift, when she was driving home. Three years into her residency, she was long used to the crazy hours, lack of sleep and getting home at all odd hours. Once Jess had loved it; been fueled by it. Once. Now, pulling into the driveway of her parent’s house, every ache and pain seem amplified, from her feet to her back to her itching eyes. And she would have to do it all again tomorrow, a thought that left her insides twisting on themselves.

 _The future Dr. Jessica Moore is right at your fingertips_ , she reminded herself. _Only a few more months left._

Then maybe her life would make sense again.

There was one bright spot in her day, at least, and it cheered her up a lot as she got out of the car and headed inside. As soon as she opened the door, she was all smiles as she heard her twin daughters scream “Mommy!” in joy. Watching them stampede down the hallway to throw themselves in her arms had her laughing; holding them in her arms and giving them both kisses made her forget her aches and pains. It was with the girls in her arms, that Jess felt okay; felt like herself again.

“My precious babies,” she cooed as she pulled away, looking both Joan and Mary over. The four-year-olds were identical down to the last freckle — same long, curly blond hair, same eyes, same smile — and mostly, they took after Jess. But they had their Uncle Dean’s freckles and, of course, Sam’s eyes, and noticing that never failed to make Jess’s heart ache a little. But she quickly forgot about it, smiling again. “How did your day go?” she asked. “How was school? Didja do anything fun?”

The twins both started talking at once, Jess holding their hands as she made her way further into the house. She went toward the kitchen where she knew her parents would be, giving Bones, the golden retriever, a pat on the head as she passed. Most of the twins’ chatter was about preschool, which they _loved_ — especially crafts, as the pictures they brought home daily showed. They loved their friends, their teacher, and everything they were learning, and Jess loved listening to them talk about their days.

She was still thankful that the twins had both made the transition from one school to another with no fuss whatsoever. They had handled the move to California with the same ease too, almost like they didn’t even notice they moved cross-country. That was most likely Dean’s influence, Jess thought; he had the twins exposed to new situations and people from a very young age, taking them to zoos, parks, restaurants, playdates, the aquarium, and much more. Nothing phased them because of that — they were always ready for the next adventure.

Jess couldn’t help but be envious about the twins sometimes; that they had taken so well to their new home. With Joan and Mary so young, they would probably forget all about their home in New York, but Jess knew she never would. She would always remember the day she had first seen it and instantly fallen in love with its white picket fence and old architecture. Looking at that house, she had seen the rest of their lives take shape: The girls would go to great schools, Jess would open her practice in the town, Sam would eventually open his own law firm when he was ready. Sam would have the home he had always wanted, and Jess was going to live the life she had imagined since she was very young. They would live a happy, fulfilling life together as a family.

But life was never that simple. Her dreams were just that: Dreams. Though it had taken thirty years for her to realize that, Jess _was_ learning it.

She just wish it had been anyone but Sam who had taught her that.

“Hey, Mom, Dad, I’m home,” Jess greeted when she entered the kitchen. Her dad, tall with brown hair growing gray, smiled at her from the stove, clearly almost done with dinner based on the smell. Her mom, curly gray hair pulled into a bun and in an oversized shirt, got up from the table to help Jess with her overnight bag. The twins scampered back to the table where their coloring books and crayons were all spread out, getting their drawings to show her.

Jess took a seat at the table, feeling her muscles relax for the first time all day. (There were few chances for her to sit in a busy hospital and you were a doctor-in-training — it had been pure hell when she had been pregnant.) The kitchen was warm and cozy, smelling faintly of cookies, reminding Jess of when her parents had first bought the home after the war. Her parents had been adamant to have a normal lifestyle after they had returned from combat, a value that Jess had come to appreciate after hearing how Sam had grown up. (That was why, whenever Dean joked that open road was in their blood, Sam had disliked it. Stability for the twins was something he wanted above all else; he didn’t want a repeat of his childhood.)

“How was your shift?” her mother asked, as her dad mumbled that dinner would be ready soon. Before Jess could lie and say _fine_ , the twins came back to show her their drawings. They clambered on the chairs next to her, waving the pictures in her face.

“Look, Mommy, look!” They said at exact same time, and with the exact same voice, it sounded like an echo. In their drawings were scribbles of circles decorated with smiley faces and long lines that made their bodies. Joan and Mary had drawn various lines in several colors for hair, and they started with the left, Mary leading with, “That’s me, Mommy, and that’s Joany—”

“A-And that’s gramma and gran’pa,” Joan added, and pointed toward the next shape, “And that’s you and Daddy—”

Jess tried not to cringe. She had vowed a long time ago that she would never tarnish the memory of the twins’ father — that when they eventually asked about him and why he’d left, that she would be kind to Sam. She would tell them he had been troubled and couldn’t stay; that he had loved them very much, but sometimes that wasn’t enough. But that was many years from now — right now, the twins mostly accepted their father was at work, and wouldn’t be home for a while.

She was distracted again, and she refocused back on the twins. “And that’s Unca’ Dean!” they both finished proudly, pointing at the last figure. Dean’s drawing had shorter scribbly hair than Sam’s, which Jess couldn’t help but smile at.

“These are wonderful. You both did a great job,” she told them, and the girls beamed.

“Can we show Unca’ Dean?” they asked excitedly.

Jess frowned. Every week, the twins would have a video call with their uncle, but Dean had said he had to miss it this time around. “Not tonight, babies. Remember Uncle Dean said he was going on a trip with Grandpa Bobby, and wouldn’t be able to call for a few days?”

Both Joan and Mary put on identical pouts, and Jess smiled again. They looked like their Uncle Dean when they did that. “Maybe we can send him a photo of your pictures, how does that sound?” she suggested, and both twins brightened.

“Yeah!” they cried.

Jess took it quickly, having them both stand proudly with their pictures as she took a photo on her phone. _J & M wanted to show you their drawings, _she typed out without thought. But then she hesitated, the text cursor blinking patiently up at her.

She and Dean had only just started talking cordially again, though Jess was still struggling with that part. It had been four months since he had told her what Sam had made him promise before he disappeared, and part of her was still _furious_ with Dean for keeping it a secret. If Dean had suspected Sam was in trouble and would leave, she had _deserved_ to know from the beginning—

Jess stopped herself mid-thought, and then let out a slow breath. She couldn’t hold that entirely on Dean, she knew that now. Whatever reason Sam left — tied up in something criminal like the police had said, or for whatever other reason — it hadn’t been Dean’s fault. Sam had left his brother too, and she knew how much that had hurt Dean.

Calmed, Jess went back to her text. _Hope you’re having good time on your trip,_ she typed, adding a smile emoji before sending it off.

It was just as she was doing that her phone rang, and she nearly dropped it in surprise. The number flashing on her screen was familiar, and Jess frowned at it.

“The hospital?” her mom asked, and Jess shook her head.

“No, it’s Bobby,” she murmured. Why would Bobby be calling? Maybe Dean’s phone wasn’t working? It was strange, but she answered it. “Hello?”

“ _Jess_.”

Jess’s breath caught in her throat, her entire body going stiff. It felt like time stopped, her heart pounding in her chest, tears pricking her eyes. It was a voice she had never expected to hear again, and it went through her like a knife through flesh.

“Sam,” she whispered.

“ _Jess_ ,” Sam said, and she could feel the entire world shift, the kitchen fading away in her blurry vision. Memories upon memories coming back to her of the life she had left behind, shattered six months ago when her husband never came home from work. She could still recall the day she last seen him, and how he had kissed her goodbye that morning, loving and longing. She had watched him scoop up the twins and twirl them around, helping them pack their lunches for the day before they were off to preschool. He had ruffled Bones’ fur, and then looked around the house one last time with a faint smile. Then he headed outside, and she never saw or heard from him again.

Until now.

Six months, she hadn’t known if he was dead or alive. _Six months_.

Her parents were looking at her, mouths hanging open. But she couldn’t respond to their confused, questioning looks, her entire world narrowed down to the phone against her ear.

 _“Oh, thank God,”_ Sam sobbed, and Jess could almost _see_ him running his hand through his hair, his knuckles white from gripping the phone tightly. It was hard to hear him over the background noise: Wind, and a thump-thump-thump that made Jess think of a helicopter. Someone was yelling too, though she couldn’t make out the words. “ _Jess, Jess, are you alright? The girls — are they okay? Please, tell me you’re alright,_ please _.”_

In her darker moments, when Jess had imagined Sam returning and asking her that question, she always thought she’d would refuse to answer. That she would tell him he couldn’t ask her that —that he didn’t have the _right_ , not after he left. She wouldn’t let him see or talk to the girls again, because he didn’t deserve it, not after what he had done to them.

But that was all forgotten in an instant. She could hear the panic and fear in Sam’s voice despite all the noise behind him. Something was wrong; something was _terribly_ wrong.

“We’re fine,” she answered, her eyes drifting over to Joan and Mary, who had taken their seats at the table again. The girls were coloring away, not noticing that the whole world had changed for them again. Jess added stupidly, “We’re about to sit down for dinner with my parents.”

As Sam sobbed another _thank God_ , Jess thought she could hear someone cry, _“Vampire, get him under control!”_ in the background.The thumping sound was growing louder too, and when Sam started talking again, he spoke so loudly she had to pull the phone away. Sam’s voice echoed out in the speaker, the desperation more prominent than before.

 _“Jess? Jess, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry about this,”_ he babbled, and the twins looked up, their brows furrowing in recognition. Even Bones lifted his head from where he was lying in the doorway, tail wagging hopefully as he cocked his head. _“You and the girls and your parents — you are all in danger.”_

Her mother and father’s reactions were immediate, both exchanging glances. Without a word, her father abandoned dinner and her mother scooted back from the table. Jess was so, so thankful they did too, because she was rooted to her chair, still in shock. All she could think was _Sam, I’m talking to Sam,_ and she almost missed his next words.

“ _The FBI is on their way to pick you up and get you somewhere safe. They're going to give you a code word: Hilts and McQueen. That will let you know it's safe to go with them. Don't answer the door to anyone else but them. If anyone else shows up you don't know... Then do what you have to to defend yourself.”_

“Daddy?” Joan asked with a bright smile, right before her grandfather swept her and Mary up. Jess’s mother went for the basement, and Jess knew she was going for the shotguns securely locked up in the safe. Both of them were soldiers through-and-through, ready to act on a moment’s notice. That was why Jess had moved back in with them: When Dean had told her that Sam might have been in some sort of danger — that his disappearance might had been tied to it — she had _acted_. If Sam had been caught up in something, she knew she had to keep her children safe, and no one could do that like her parents could.

But Sam had the FBI involved? And they had to use code words in case it _wasn’t_ the FBI who showed up at their door? And Sam wanted them to kill them if it wasn't? What kind of danger were they in?

Her mom came back, shotgun in hand as she peered out the kitchen window, scanning the street. From the living room, Jess could see her father cajoling the twins to put on their shoes and sweaters. Both were asking about their ‘Daddy,’ Mary looking over excitedly. “Are we going to see Daddy, Mommy?” she asked.

Jess swallowed thickly. There was a question, she thought.

“And you?” she said into the phone, because she had to know the answer. “Are you in danger, Sam?”

In response, Sam let out the most wrecked sob she had ever heard. There was so much pain in it, it physically hurt her, making tears fill her eyes again.

 _“I-I’m okay, Jess, I’m okay,”_ he said when he was finally able, voice choked. _“Dean helped me. He helped me escape the place I was at. He sacrificed himself so we could get away, and—”_

Sam paused, and over the thumping sound in the background and her mom emerging from the basement, Jess forgot to breathe again.

 _Dean_.

Dean had done _what_?

“A car’s pulling up,” her mother said, her expression grim as she peered out the window. “Black SUV; tinted windows.”

“Sounds like FBI,” her dad said, which almost made Jess laugh despite everything. What they knew of FBI mostly consisted of what they saw on television, after all.

“They’re wearing vests that say FBI too,” her mother replied, but Jess didn’t get a chance to reply. Sam came back on the phone then, voice pained again.

 _“I-I’m so sorry, Jess. I have to go back for Dean. I_ have _to go back for him_ ,” he said, and Jess’s breath caught in her throat again. “ _Tell Joan and Mary..._ _Please tell them I love them and I miss them, and... I love you too, Jess, and I am_ so sorry _.”_

Jess felt tears slip down her cheeks. She knew then that Sam was saying goodbye, for real this time. Whatever had happened to Dean, Sam might die trying to help him. She was going to lose her husband all over again, and Dean on top of it too...

Jess blinked back her tears, and she didn’t recognize her own voice as she said, “ _Sam—”_

But someone on Sam’s end let out a curse, and then Jess swore she heard Bobby of all people say, _“Balls, the angel’s wakin’ up!_ ”

 _Angel?_ Jess wondered, confused, and the shouts on the other end grew louder. Sam was yelling then too, but nothing could block out the most inhuman scream she ever heard that followed.

It was full of anger, of grief, of sorrow, and it sounded distinctly like it was yelling _Dean_.

“Castiel, no!” Sam cried, and then the phone went dead.

* * *

“Try this.”

Balthazar prided himself on his refined food palate, and he eyed the bowl that Rachel set on the table dubiously. It was filled with a golden liquid, complete with flecks of who even knew what. Flowers or berries or some other nonsense, knowing Rachel.

“Is this one of your experiments with the honey again?” he asked, tawny feathers on his wings slicking back with his distaste.

“It is,” she replied, taking a seat in the chair across from him. Balthazar made a face. He still remembered the last batch she had made him try, with its cloying sweetness that made him swear off honey for almost a month.

“Do I _have_ to try it?” he asked mournfully. He wasn’t exactly into the mood for playing taste-tester: After a long day of work at the museum, all Balthazar wanted to do was enjoy a couple of glasses of wine before bed.

But the look Rachel gave him promised a painful — if not swift —death if he didn’t comply, and Balthazar pouted. Not that he couldn’t best her in hand-to-hand combat if it ever came down to it, but Rachel did have the last say-so on the things Balthazar requested from Jannah on a regular basis. If he pissed her off, there went all his supply requests for the month.

With a put-upon sigh, he set down his book on the table, and shifted forward carefully not to disturb Kedi, the purring cat draped in his lap. Then he dipped a finger into the bowl, Rachel watching him with keen eyes as he stuck it in his mouth to taste.

His wings rustled after he swallowed, and then he looked down at the bowl. “Wow,” he said, impressed. “That’s... surprisingly _good_ , Rachel.”

Rachel wasn’t known for smiling, so Balthazar was a little more than weirded out when her lips slid toward something distinctly smile-like. Her feathers on her tan-colored wings fluffed up too, pleased, but Balthazar couldn’t blame her, not with what she had pulled off. He took another sample, enjoying the hint of spice and tartness that mixed in beautifully with the sweetness. It was amazing, and he couldn’t help but tease, “Your experiments finally came to fruition, hm?”

Oh, how had she experimented too. Rachel had taken over caring for the bees ages ago, but it was only recently that she had started trying to create a flavored honey. It had brought out a side to her that that Balthazar had never seen before, Rachel’s normally stern expression from reading trade agreements and official requests fading away whenever she had a new jar of cultivated honey to play with.

Balthazar was usually the taste-tester too, mostly because he was the only one up after ten at night, and always could be found in the same place: The rooftop gardens, with Kedi. Around them, the valley was quiet, only a few angels out flying before they retired for the night. The lights lit up around the white towers made everything look hazy in the evening fog, the gardens’ bubbling pond adding to the tranquility of the moment.

Wind batted at Rachel’s long feather blond hair and the apron she had put on over her black suit, her wings rustling as she nodded toward the bowl of honey.

“I decided to try dried _altin_ berries and mixed them in with a few spices,” Rachel replied, and Balthazar nodded. He could taste that, and it made him wonder what it would be like in his wine. And since his glass was right there… “I'll take it to the kitchens tomorrow; see what they think of it."

“Have them try it with some of the wine too,” Balthazar said, as he sipped his glass. He pulled back, marveling at the flavor it added. “You know, we might be able to sell this if the humans like it enough. It’d make a fortune.”

Rachel did smile this time, her feathers fluffing up again. There was a shy edge to her smile, expression hopeful, like she had been hoping Balthazar to say that. “My first creation,” she murmured, and Balthazar went still.

She was only thinking of one particular angel while saying that, and it made Balthazar acutely aware he was sitting in said angel’s garden with said angel’s cat in his lap. The pain was a little duller thanks to the wine, and Balthazar managed a smile of his own, teasing, “Going to name it _Cassie’s Honey_ , hm?”

Rachel looked offended, and Balthazar had to hide a grin behind his glass. “ _Castiel’s_ Honey, thank you very much,” she muttered, folding her arms over her chest. “They will have to know it’s made by angels — he’d want it that way.”

 _Castiel_ was a distinctly angel name, no one would mistake that for a human’s. And Rachel was right, Castiel would want that, Balthazar thought. Showing off what angels accomplished and created was something that Castiel had always loved doing. He had always wanted to show the world what they could do outside being soldiers, sold to the highest bidder to fight whatever war...

Balthazar needed another sip of wine before he could say anything. “He would,” he whispered, looking down at the cat in his lap. “He would.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. They didn’t have to, and the moment passed quicker than it used to. Rachel’s smile was a little weaker as she stood up, back to business as she gathered up her bowl. “I’ll bottle this up for tomorrow’s breakfast, and let everyone try it,” she commented and Balthazar couldn’t help his snort.

“Don’t let Gabriel get ahold of it,” he said, and Rachel rolled her eyes. (Everyone knew the former arch’s love for sweets, and honey would be no exception.) Balthazar waved as Rachel started to leave, but before she made it to door, it swung open, slamming against the wall.

It made Kedi start, claw dragging against Balthazar’s leg as she darted off. He hissed in pain, and then glared at the intruder. It turned out to be Hannah, and Balthazar’s anger faded when he took in her brown wings fluttering in clear distress, matched by the shock on her face. She looked like she had flown a mile a minute, panting wildly.

“Hannah?” Balthazar and Rachel asked at once, and their sister pulled in the quickest breath.

“ _Castiel,_ ” she said. “H-He’s alive. He’s been _found_.”

Rachel dropped her bowl, but no one heard the shattering sound over the echoing of those words in the air.

_Castiel was alive. He had been found._

“Where?” Balthazar asked, not even recognizing his own voice. It sounded hollow, like he was moments away from tears. Perhaps he was; he barely noticed the wine dripping down fingers and wrist where he broken the glass in his hand.

“Alaska,” Hannah said, looking at him. “Gabriel wants us to pack and then meet him at the gates as soon as possible. We need to leave for the airport immediately.”

Honey and wine were forgotten; Balthazar and Rachel never flew so fast, only one thought on their minds.

 _Castiel had been found. Castiel had been found. Castiel had been_ found.


	2. Deal with the Devil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Events referenced in this chapter are from The Hunted Chapter 36 and Chapter 29 respectively.
> 
> This chapter is also set before Chapter 1.

* * *

**Earlier**

* * *

_Promise me, Sammy._

Those words went through Sam’s head again and again as the life raft rolled and lifted with the waves, making its way to the waiting boat in the bay. The ride was silent, the three daemons not saying a word as each sweep of the paddles drew them closer. The only sounds came from Bobby, grunting and grumbling as pushed paddles through the water. He had been forced into rowing the life raft, the old man remaining compliant because of the pistol on Sam’s back… Not that Sam really cared about the weapon on him.

Not when every instinct he had telling him to throw himself overboard and swim back — back to the island, back to _Dean_.

But two words stopped him, rooting him to his seat. Two words that created a war inside of him, torn between what he wanted to do and what he _needed_ to do.

 _Promise me_.

“Dean,” Castiel whimpered, and Sam’s good eye slid over at him. The angel was curled up in between two seats, a daemon straddling him to keep him pinned down, her hand pushed hard against his shoulder and a pistol at his head. Castiel didn’t seem to have any interest in fighting however — or wasn’t aware there was anyone on him — his red and wet eyes trained on the island. He still looked woozy from where he had taken a blow to the head, his trembling hand slid along the wet rubber of the boat, reaching out toward the beach. He whimpered again. _“Dean_.”

Sam felt his one eye burning and his injured eye throb in pain, his fists clenching against his thighs. Never had he felt more connected to the angel (since he was eight years old at least), part of him wanting to sob and curl up too. He didn’t want to close his eyes, because anytime he did, he kept seeing the exact moment Dean had been shot. He remembered watching Dean fall. Screaming his name. Blood, so much blood. The dull look in Dean’s eyes before he fell unconscious. His pained smile and pleas.

_“You can do this, Sammy. You can do anything. Remember what I said earlier? You have to fight. And you do that by getting everyone home, okay?”_

_“Let me die knowing you’re safe, Sammy.”_

And he would die. His brother had nearly died in Sam’s arms — his hands, shaking badly, were still coated with Dean’s blood — and then he had left him to the whims of a _monster. He_ had left Dean _behind_ , to be tortured and torn apart and eaten _alive_. He had gotten his brother killed, and if Roman had actually went after Jess and the twins? God, he had _murdered_ his entire family _..._

Sam dug nails into his palms, but the pain didn’t help any. He could feel his chest heaving, hot tears falling down his cheeks. It was just too _much_ , and he couldn’t help but close his eyes, and prayed with everything he was. Maybe none of this real, he thought feverishly. Maybe this was all a terrible dream, and any moment he’d wake up in his cave. He’d start his day the usual way — searching for food and water, checking his traps, working on his tools, finding enough firewood — and everything would be okay, because he knew his family was safe.

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel pleaded again, proving this wasn’t a dream. And the guilt could have killed Sam then and there… until he looked at the angel, and was suddenly so _angry_. The angel’s naked grief made him want to start yelling at Castiel; remind him that his loss was nothing compared to _his_. And this was the angel’s fault, wasn’t it? Dean had always believed in Castiel, practically _worshipped_ him, for all the good that had done him. Castiel hadn’t saved him when it really mattered — and it was the angels’ fault in general that they were in this situation! Leviathan were supposed to have been killed off _centuries_ ago, and yet—

Yet...

...that was cruel, and unfair. Sam felt his anger deflate as quickly as it had come, and he had to fight back tears again. It was cruel and unfair not only to Castiel, but to his brother, who hadn’t sacrificed himself so Sam could turn on his… Whatever the angel was to Dean now. (Something profound; something more than just hero worship. Dean had made him _promise_ to look after Cas too...)

Guilt made Sam look away from the angel, his eye landing on the distant boat. No, Dean had given himself up so they had a chance at escaping Roman’s clutches for good and rescue his family. (If they were even still alive.) Sam _couldn’t_ get caught up in his anger or grief; he had to focus — think over what he had to do and _how_ he’d do it. He only had one shot at this; if he didn’t pull this off, they would all die, and Dean’s sacrifice would really be meaningless then.

He had made a promise to his brother… and he had to keep it.

That meant dealing with the daemons first however, which wasn’t going to be easy. There were three of them on the boat, Sam knowing they were under orders to kill them. He figured they wouldn’t make their move until they were actually on the boat itself; killing them too soon meant the vampirs, already on the boat, would just take off. So the daemons would bide their time, something Sam had to take advantage of while he still could. How though? he wondered, as he glanced at the daemon sitting at the head of the boat. A distraction was probably their best bet...

But as he looked at the daemons, he found himself hesitating. He recognized all three of them; knew who they were too. The daemon with the gun at his back named Ruby, hair as dark as her black eyes; Mara, with a deep, gouging scar down her cheek, was pining Castiel down. At the head of the boat was Wash, the daemon who had found them in the forest, and who the vampir matriarch had attacked. The end result of that were the mass of bandages along her neck and shoulder, stained red. Sam couldn’t imagine what lay underneath was very pretty.

Despite vowing to kill anyone who threatened them, Sam couldn’t help having misgivings. He knew these daemons: Mara had made sure he had food and drink when he had first been imprisoned before being let go on the island; Ruby had warned him to avoid the southwest area, because that was where the vampirs and lycanthrope lived. While some of the other daemons had heckled and mocked Sam for not knowing about the ‘animals’ he would face, Wash had been one of the few who hadn’t. Compared to some of the other daemons, they had been kind to him, in their own way.

And as Sam had told Dean, a daemon had been the reason he had even found out about what Roman was doing in the first place. He knew some of them had been tricked this job, not realizing what they were getting into until it was too late. And if anyone understood what it was like to get in over their head, it was Sam.

But it didn’t matter how much he could commiserate with the daemons. He couldn’t either, not with Jess and his girls, Bobby, Castiel, the vampir family, _Dean_. So Sam took a deep breath and then exhaled it slowly, hardening his heart as he did. Distraction, he reminded himself. He needed a distraction…

He happened to meet Bobby’s eyes, and the old man seemed to have been waiting for that. He held his gaze for a long moment, long enough for Sam to realize that Bobby was thinking along the same lines as him, and that he had something planned. He flashed Sam a quick “wait” signal, lifting his hand between rows to do so, and then glanced at the daemon straddling Castiel. Sam tensed, knowing whatever distraction Bobby was going to cause, he would have only seconds to take advantage of it.

The second the daemons’ eyes were on Bobby, he would twist to the side far enough so the gun was no longer at his back, grabbing the daemon’s arm with one hand while he used the other to slam into her face. Then he would snatch her pistol and twist back around, aiming it right at the other two daemons—

Something must have given him away, however: His face, his tense body, dumb luck. Before he could even move, the daemon Wash’s voice rang out from over the waves sloshing against the raft’s side.

“Don’t do it, Winchester,” she said gruffly, and Sam glanced at her in surprise. The daemon’s black eyes shifted to meet his, and she shook her head in warning. The light coming from the boat cast shadows on her face that made her difficult to read, her voice cold like the water lapping against the raft’s sides. “Don’t do something you might regret.”

Sam twitched, irritated that he had been caught so easily, and suspicious she was mocking him. That feeling didn’t last long however, morphing into confusion as he watched the daemon shift forward in her seat, and then lean toward him. She rested her rifle along her knees, movements slow, careful — _non-threatening_ , Sam realized a moment later. Even with a whole extra foot on her, as a daemon, she was bigger and muscular than him — a predator, which he was not. He couldn’t help the fearful tingle that went down his spine, suddenly aware of the aching exhaustion in his muscles that stemmed from a stomach he could never seem to keep full. He was weak, like a child — and he couldn’t help but remember when he _had_ been a child and the sight of daemons had _terrified_ him...

But she seemed to be taking the whole predator-prey dynamic into consideration as she hunched low, making her look smaller, and flicked her all-black eyes back to more human-like blue eyes. Her voice was calm and cool as she murmured, “Let’s just... _talk_.”

 _Talk?_ Bobby mouthed, throwing Sam a confused, wary glance. Sam had the same reaction, frowning suspiciously at her. He had said those same exact words to her once, when she had held him, Dean and a barely-conscious Castiel by gunpoint in the forest. They had barely escaped the several hellhounds and a patrol of daemons that had tried to kill them, only for Wash to catch them by surprise. Sam had tried to convince her to let them go, that he could still stop Roman if she gave him a chance. He had believed if he could just plead his case, he could convince her...

It hadn’t worked; she hadn’t believed him. Yet, here she was, asking the same of him. “ _Talk?”_ he repeated, and then glanced at the other daemons for any clues to what was going on. Their blank faces gave away nothing, and he turned back to her. “You want to _talk_?”

Bobby threw him his own confused _what the hell?_ look as she slowly nodded. “You wanted to talk earlier, remember?” she said, as if that explained everything. Sam couldn’t help but bristle at that, narrowing his eyes.

“I did,” he growled. Was this some sort of game? A trick? “And then you tried to _kill_ me and my brother, _remember?_ ”

That made her bare her teeth, irritation coloring her voice as her eyes flicked back to black. “It would have been a fucking mercy compared to whatever _he_ would have done to you,” she snarled, jabbing a finger toward him. “And you failed to mention you had an escape plan lined up; that your fucking plan wasn’t trying to kill him like every other idiot has tried to. ”

Sam felt his cheeks flush with guilt, and he glanced away. He hadn’t told her about any escape plan, because he hadn’t _believed_ Dean when he had said Bobby was coming for them. He had thought Roman’s daemons would find Bobby long before he could — that he had even showed up, boat in tow, was probably nothing short of a miracle.

But why did that even matter? Sam thought, as he looked back at her. Would that really have made any difference? It hadn’t fazed her any when he had pointed out that if Roman was destroying all evidence on the island, the daemons were included in that process. If her own death hadn’t changed her mind, why would an escape plan?

“Would you have actually spared us if I had?” he asked. It couldn’t have been that simple, not after everything.

Her eyes flicked back to normal, and she gave him a measured look. Chills went down his spine, and he knew she was completely serious when she said, “Yes.”

Bobby threw him another surprised glance, while Sam quickly looked at the other daemons. They had no reaction to the proposed mutiny, which told him they had discussed this before, maybe even planned for it. But it still answered his early question — why would an escape plan have made the difference?

So he asked. “Why?” he said, barely hiding his anger. He managed not to add, _why couldn’t you have done that before my brother was shot?_ but it wasn’t easy.He just didn’t want to believe her. He couldn’t. (He didn’t want to believe that if he told her that, Dean might have never been hurt. He could have been on the boat with them, instead of in Roman’s clutches…)

Wash didn’t reply; one of the other daemons did instead, Mara adjusting her grip on Castiel as she hissed at Sam. “Some of us didn’t want this, Winchester. But we were trapped just as much as you.” She waved the pistol she was holding to the angel’s head a little erratically. “Those of us who wanted out couldn’t just _leave_ the boss’s employment — he doesn’t do loose ends. And if we ever tried anything? That just put our family’s lives at risk.”

Sam flinched with a wave of guilt. He should have thought of that — he knew that the daemon’s own families might have been at risk just like his. (Was that why Wash had initially refused to help him? She had her own family to worry about?) Wash nodded at Mara, and then turned back at Sam. “But now you’re _off_ the island now,” she added. “You _could_ actually stop him... But you can’t do it without us.”

Sam frowned, exchanging a quick glance with Bobby. Without them? “Because you’re under orders to kill us,” he asked, wondering if that was she meant. Wash gently tipped her head in a quiet ‘yes,’ and then leaned further in.

“It’s more than that though, Winchester,” she went on quickly, voice low, as if Roman was nearby and might hear them. “If we failed to kill you, I got no doubt the boss has someone waiting for you when you make landfall. And that speech he gave you about keeping your mouth shut, otherwise he’ll kill your family? He wasn’t bullshitting about that — I know he wants you to stay quiet long enough until he can have you killed. You have a target on your back, Winchester, and it ain’t ever coming off.”

“Balls,” Bobby muttered, a sentiment that Sam shared. He knew Roman’s reach was far — he ran a secretive international human/humanoid trafficking ring and had the means to keep it a secret — but hearing it said out loud sent another trickle of fear down his spine. It wasn’t just him with that target on his back either; it was all of them. His family would _never_ be safe, not as long as Roman was out there. Unless...

“Unless you help us,” he repeated quietly, and then frowned. “How?”

“We don’t kill you for one,” Mara muttered darkly. Wash shot her a quick warning glance, and she turned away, grumbling under her breath as she readjusted her hold on Castiel.

Wash turned back to him. “We’re not suggesting trying to kill him either: That’d be suicide. Who even knows what it takes to kill him. But you can go after him other ways, right?” She then looked behind him, gesturing her hand and prompting, “Ruby?”

Sam blinked in surprise, and then moved down his seat enough so he turn around and look at her. She was a younger daemon, shorter and smaller than Wash or Mara, her black hair pinned up messily. Her all-black eyes then shifted to more human-looking brown ones. Holstering her pistol, before she started rummaging into the pockets of her fatigues, speaking as she did.

“The reason you couldn’t have had the boss arrested before. It was the lack of solid evidence, wasn’t it?” she asked, and Sam slowly nodded. From her pockets, she pulled out a USB drive, holding up in the light of the boat so he could see. “The boss kept a ton of research and information on his personal servers. Most of it was moved off-site when your brother showed up, but I managed to copy over some of the data before it was. It’s nowhere near close to the whole thing and it’s probably encrypted, but it might be enough.”

“There’s also names we can give you: his enforcers, the people who run his network; daemons who might be willing to talk if you offer them a deal,” Wash added. “All that — it should be enough to stop him. It has to be.”

It very well could be enough, Sam thought as he looked over the USB drive. But before he could reach for it, Bobby piped in, pausing in his rowing to do so.

“And what’s the cost?” he asked.

Wash glanced at him and then her eyes flicked back to Sam. “What do you lawyers call it? _Quid pro quo_. We let you go. We give you what evidence we have. We tell you who to target in his network so he can’t retaliate against you. But _us?”_

She gestured at the other two daemons, her eyes narrowing. “All of us who are left? We disappear. Change our names, identities, whatever. Make the boss think you killed us here, and he’ll take his eyes off our families long enough so they can disappear too. You can make that happen, can’t you? You have the right connections?”

Sam did. Or at least he thought he still did. As an assistant district attorney (or _former_ district attorney) and the son of a former general, he had connections in all forms in government: military, FBI, even one hacker in the CIA. But what the daemons were asking for…

Bobby was giving him a look that said he was thinking the same exact thing. The daemons wanted immunity. To not pay for their crimes — of which there were many, including kidnapping, assault, and imprisonment. Even if they had been performed under duress, they were still crimes, and part of that did not sit well with Sam.

But another part thought about how he didn’t really want to fight the daemons, and what they were offering really _meant_. It was everything that he had wanted before. Evidence, _actual evidence_ , to what Roman had been doing. Sam had figured out a lot on his own — put together all the clues that Roman was involved in trafficking — but he had never had anything solid. And before he could find anything, Roman had found him out, and Sam had to give everything up or die.

But now, concrete evidence could do so much more. If he got this to the right people, he could go on the offensive. Trying to arrest him could be disastrous (a small army would probably have to be called in to do it) but there were other ways to hurt him. He could have Roman’s assets frozen, plaster his face on every “wanted” poster he could find, giftwrap the evidence and send it to the media. It would ruin him, and Sam could do the same thing to those in his network before they could retaliate. Maybe he could even dismantle the entire thing.

The evidence meant he could end all this once and for all. He could save Jess and his baby girls and the others from a lifetime of always watching their backs. It could mean making up for everything he had done: Putting his family in danger in the first place, failing to stop Roman before this, turning his back on the people of the island and thinking they were _animals_.

But there was one thing it wouldn’t make up for, and Sam hesitated, hand halfway there to taking the USB. Tears filled his good eye again, and he could hear Castiel’s gentle whimpers as he looked back up at the daemons.

“What about my brother?” he asked, barely recognizing his own voice. He sounded so... small. Like a child again. “Is there a way to help him?”

The daemons reacted in various ways: Mara’s nose wrinkled; Wash’s lips pursed as she looked away. They gave no answer, possibly because the answer was obvious: Going after Dean meant attacking Roman, and attacking Roman was suicide.

Ruby did answer him though, Sam looking over in surprise when she touched his arm. He wasn’t used to being touched anymore, and he couldn’t look away as she placed the USB in his hand. “If there is a way, Winchester,” she said quietly as his fingers curled around it automatically. “ _This_ is it.”

That made him look down at the USB, so tiny in his hand. It carried so much weight, their one chance at being free. But Sam couldn’t see how it could save Dean’s life too… Unless...

Unless brought the fight to Roman. Crippling his finances, going after his network — that could all be done with or without Sam. He knew people who could that for him. No one said he couldn’t go after Roman though, even if it was suicidal to do it. But Sam had his contacts, _military contacts_ , and if he could bring them in, _maybe_ they stood a chance...

“We’re almost there,” Wash muttered then, drawing Sam out of his thoughts. He looked up and saw that she was right, the boat’s hull only feet away; he also noticed the vampirs on its deck, watching them approach. Sam’s stomach sank a little, realizing he was going to have to explain this to them… And that wouldn’t be easy. (The vampir matriarch didn’t like him as it was; she was going to like him a lot less when he told her they were unlikely allies with daemons now.)

“Good thing too,” Mara muttered, and Sam glanced over, seeing she was struggling to keep Castiel down. The angel was moving more, wing pushing against her, his hands sliding against the raft floor. Sam caught a glimpse of his eyes, pupils slits; an unnerving sight. Mara gritted her teeth. “I don’t think the angel is very happy right now.”

Sam clutched the little USB drive in his hand, and took a deep breath. There was a lot to do: convince the vampirs about the new plan, look out for Castiel, call his contacts, rescue Jess and his baby girls, _save_ Dean. It wouldn’t be easy, but at least he had the chance to, and Sam was going to take it.

He had made a promise to, and he would keep it.


	3. The Angel (The Animal)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Events referenced in this chapter are from _The Hunted_ chapters 1, 10, 11, 13, 14, 16, 17, 23, 33, 34, 35 and 36. I may have missed one or two there, too...
> 
> In the timeline, this chapter's end takes place after chapter 5.

For what felt like years — _millennia_ — only one thing had driven the angel: His endless hunger. It devoured him from the inside out no matter how much he fed it, until it felt like there was nothing left inside him. And that nothingness — that empty, black pit that he was becoming — _scared_ him, the angel not wanting to believe what it told him he was.

At least, until he started to wonder _why_. As winter came to the island and food became scarce, the angel started to wonder more and more why he didn’t embrace it completely. Why did he fight it? Why didn’t he give in to the peace it promised? Why did he continue to wonder whether his dreams were more than dreams? Why didn’t he accept what it told he was? Why didn’t he become what it told him he was?

Why?

He wondered all those things, until he met a human in the forest. Until he heard him say, “I can _save_ you.”

Until he said, “I _know_ you.”

_You’re Castiel._

It was like being struck by the ghost once again. The angel felt his blade slip from his hand as he stumbled back, away from the human, away from the wave of emotions that word brought with it. His wings started to quake, and a sudden tightness in his chest made it difficult to breathe. That one word repeated itself over and over in his mind, filling up the hole inside him until it felt like he’d explode.

_Castiel. Castiel. Castiel._

_His name was Castiel._ (He had _forgotten_ that. How could he have forgotten that?) _His name was Castiel._

It was like the first time he had ever seen sunlight: He was left dizzy, blindsided, overwhelmed. All the the things he hadn’t been sure weren’t part of a dream — the idea that he hadn’t _always_ been on the island — suddenly seemed so _real_ : That he had had a home, a family. He had once been more than just an animal; he had hopes and dreams and wishes and aspirations. He wasn’t just _meat_ for the monster—

It was too much. But it was also everything the angel so desperately wanted, _needed_. And it was in that instant that he would have followed the human anywhere; Dean, Dean Winchester, who had said he could save him, who knew his name and perhaps everything that came with it. The angel longed for him to connect the scattered pieces; to finally answer the question he himself couldn’t answer.

Who was he? What was he? Was he what the hole inside said he was? Or was he what his dreams said he was?

Was he just an animal? Or was he something _more?_

* * *

For so long, the angel had been consumed by one thing: His endless hunger.

And the black, empty hole inside of him could not so easily be ignored.

Dean was like a light, bright enough to chase away some of its shadows, and the angel was a moth. So much about the human drew him in; made the angel feel things he didn’t really understand. There was the way Dean smiled and laughed for one, the angel realizing he hadn’t seen or heard those things in a very long time. There was the way Dean’s body so openly spoke of his fear and worry and concern, when the angel had long forgotten how to feel such things. (It had been crucial that he shouldn’t once: The scents of those emotions could attract predators.) There was all the things Dean knew, bits and pieces of things that were part of the angel’s dreams, proving they were real.

And when Dean touched him — gently tending to his wounds after the lycanthrope attack — it had been like fire warming his cold, cold skin. More than anything else, it was _real_ , and the angel had had no idea how much he needed that kind touch until that very moment. It was a greater need than even his hunger; it filled the hole inside of him until the angel almost forgot about it entirely.

Most important of all, Dean told him what he was: An angel. _You’re a warrior! You’re supposed to protect people_ , he said, and the angel had seized upon that.

 _Yes, yes,_ he had once been that; he had devoted himself to that but had forgotten. Hunger had twisted that around inside of him, forced him to consider people as food instead of living beings. The angel didn’t want that; would have never wanted that. The angel vowed he wouldn’t do it again; he would _protect_ Dean like an angel should.

But the hole inside him was still there, still hungry. Its teeth were sunk in too deep, and even Dean, with his promise to save him, could not stop it from dragging the angel back down. He had never been strong enough to resist it to begin with, or been able to truly deny what it told him he was.

Even with his newfound purpose, facing off against the vampir matriarch and her nest, the angel wasn’t strong enough to fight it.

 _Once you strip away our titles, our social statuses, our education, our humanity, we’re all just animals underneath,_ the matriarch told Dean just as much as she reminded the angel. _We’re all just meat._

And she was right. The angel had seen so many die — from illness, from exposure, from starvation. He had seen those run down by the lycanthrope, their necks snapped before they could fight. He had seen the vampirs bite their prey and follow after them until they were overcome with the venom and collapsed, unable to fight back as they were slowly drained of blood. He had watched the monster tear apart those who weren’t fast enough to get away or foolish enough to challenge him.

The angel remembered the bones of his brothers and sisters he had found in the ghost’s cavern. Who they had been, whatever they could have been, was just _gone_. They had been angels, and that hadn’t been enough to save them.

 _We can’t be saved,_ the matriarch told them, and that shook the angel to his core. But it was true, wasn’t it? They couldn’t fight the monster, and they couldn’t escape the hole inside themselves that showed them what they were. Even the angel’s wish — wanting to know if what he dreamed about was real, if he was something more — seemed so pointless in the end.

In the end, wasn’t he just his hunger?

Wasn’t he just _meat?_

But Dean fought back against that — even as hunger overwhelmed the angel and he turned on the human — struggling against the vampirs and their venom, against the nothingness the angel had sank into. And when he screamed _Castiel!_ , the sheer _need_ that went through the angel was again like being blinded by the sun again.

 _His name was Castiel_ , he remembered. He had forgotten that again; forgotten everything that came with that. (Hopes and dreams and wishes; the longing to not be just an animal, not just _meat_.) _His name was Castiel._

It was enough for him to snap out of his haze and save Dean before the vampirs killed him. It was a near thing, and Dean had to stop him before he nearly killed the vampirs in his rage. And then he had been wracked by guilt for what he had almost done — for almost getting Dean _killed_ — and the angel could barely look at him. The only way to make it up to him seemed to be to throw himself at the daemons and keep them off his trail.

But Dean refused. He wanted the angel to come with him still. Still trusted him, after _everything_.

The angel protested, fought back. “I do not… I do not know if I can be trusted, Dean,” he told him, for it was still true. The hole inside of him was still there, and even now he was struggling against it. He could feel just under the surface, threatening to consume him whole. He was just so _hungry_. “That I won’t give in again.”

Dean had just looked at him, exhausted and hurt but still so kind, and whispered, “I believe in you.”

The angel had felt his throat fill up, emotions he couldn’t name at those words. And for the first time in a long time, the angel — _Castiel_ — began to hope.

* * *

 “You know, Dean, I’d love to hunt you.”

The moment the monster said that, Castiel had known they were doomed. Once the monster set its eyes on its prey, heaven or earth could not stop it. Yet, despite that, Castiel threw himself at the monster, the need to protect Dean outweighing all reason and thought. Foolishly he even had hoped it would be enough: That with Dean at his side, he would be strong enough to defeat his ancient foe on his own, and save them both...

He wasn’t.

He was only an angel, and the monster was faster, stronger, deadlier. The muscles that made angels capable of such powerful kicks and their agility were amplified thrice over in the monster; with no need to fly, he was built like a boulder, capable of taking any blow without flinching. Castiel could fight blind, without his wings, half-starved, half- _dead_ if he needed to, but even at full strength he would have stood no chance. He was the wind, fighting the mountain... and that was a fight he would always lose.

And he did. The monster easily overpowered him, and if it hadn’t been for Dean firing at him, Castiel would have been strangled to death. The bullet only grazed the monster’s forehead, but it had been enough for him to let go, and for Castiel to catch himself on his hands and use his legs to kick the monster back. He used every ounce of his strength to do it, sending the monster flying back, crashing into the undergrowth.

The last of strength fled Castiel after that, his vision blurring in and out as he flipped to his feet. His wings were shuddering in fear and pain, and he could barely breathe, throat swollen and bruised. Despite having knocked the monster back, Castiel could still feel his powerful grip around his neck, slowly choking the life out of him. His legs were weak, unable to hold his weight; he felt Dean catch him as he stumbled, Castiel anchoring himself by curling fingers in his shirt. It was a small comfort, even though they were in terrible, terrible danger.

“Dean,” Castiel croaked, vision swimming in and out. His entire body throbbed in pain from where the monster had hurled him into a tree; when he closed his eyes, he remembered the monster’s face splitting into two, revealing rows and rows of sharp teeth. “Dean, you have to go.”

Dean didn’t seem to hear, his weapon trained on the forest. His hand was shaking as it darted from bush to bush, searching for any hint of the monster.

“Cas, what is he?” he whispered, and Castiel instinctively bared his teeth, every feather he had rising. The name of the monster left his lips for the first time since he had been brought to this island; one he had always been terrified to say, for it made everything so _real_.

“A _Leviathan_ ,” he hissed.

The Black Death. The Soulless Serpents. The Old Ones. Angels had thousands of names for them, and Castiel knew every last one of them. They were carved into him, like the scars on his chest; he had forgotten his name, himself, his family, but he had never forgotten what the monster was. He couldn’t. No angel could, not with when they all knew what Leviathan were capable of. They had been told the stories since they were fledglings; learned how much their ancestors had sacrificed to wipe the Leviathan out.

Except one had escaped that onslaught, and now its bottomless hunger was set on him and Dean.

Castiel’s wings twitched, wanting to spread and take flight (even though he couldn’t fly); to flee while they still had the chance. But other instincts rooted him to the ground and pumped into his veins, telling him to _protect protect protect._ Protect Dean; protect him at all costs. Dean’s mission was everything; _Dean_ was everything. Greater than his fear of the monster, greater than his fear of being just meat, was the thought of Dean dying. Castiel couldn’t let that happen.

Dean had to run. But he would never escape on foot, Castiel glancing down at the knee Dean had been favoring since they had met. There was only one choice then, and Castiel began to push him back, using his wing and hand.

“Dean, please, you must go,” he pleaded as wide green eyes met his. “You must—”

He saw a movement in the corner of his eye; heard a snap of a branch. That was his only warning before the monster started firing at them, Castiel pulling Dean down just in time. Bullets flew over their heads as he dragged Dean behind a thick tree trunk, the thick wood providing them some protection. But it wouldn’t last long, Castiel hearing the monster approaching, the rattling hiss that left its jaws. It was hunting them now.

“You have to go. Find your brother. I’ll hold him off,” Castiel told Dean quickly, but Dean was already shaking his head.

“No, no, Cas, he’ll kill you.”

“He will kill us _all_ ,” Castiel protested, and he watched Dean’s throat bob in a swallow. He could see the exact moment Dean realized that was the truth, but still he did not run.

But just as he was about to tell him to move, Dean whispered, “We have to kill him.”

Castiel almost protested, but Dean’s eyes slid to the rifle he had strapped to his back. Castiel knew his plan before he even explained it, but he had no idea if it would work. Could bullets stop a Leviathan? Castiel didn’t know — the stories told always featured javelins and swords, and how it took many, many blows and stabs before a Leviathan would die. But a bullet built to take down powerful creatures? It was possible… If they could hit him. The monster had already dodged one bullet, as it was. They would have to catch him off guard.

Castiel’s wings twitched in discomfort, not liking the plan. He still wanted Dean to run and not look back, and he wasn’t sure how long he could hold the monster off. Would it be long enough that Dean could escape? Or would the monster tear him apart in an instant, and hunt Dean down before he could get very far?

Castiel didn’t know. At least with Dean’s plan, if he couldn’t hold the monster off very long, then at least Dean had a chance to kill him. So he agreed — he would lead the monster to Dean, give him a chance to make that shot — knowing it might be their only hope.

Before they parted, Castiel looked over Dean for what felt like the last time: his beautiful green eyes, the freckles on his face, the lips that had gave him back his name and kissed him, hands that had touched him and showed him pleasure. There was so many emotions and feelings that Castiel felt for him that it was almost impossible to sort out, but he at least knew one thing: He could not let the monster take him away too.

So as Dean ran and did not look back, Castiel followed in the footsteps of his ancestors. He swept up his sword and launched himself at the Levithan.

The monster easily dodged his attack, chuckling as he sidestepped the next one too. When the goal was to simply keep him back, that was fine, but Castiel still internally cringed when his sword struck air.

“So is this what it takes you to fight, angel? A _human_?” the monster mocked, and then took a swing at him. Castiel barely avoided it, feeling the air getting sucked away as his claw passed where his stomach had been moments before. The claws ended up ripping through the bark of a tree like a knife through butter, the monster not even flinching. “I’m so disappointed. I thought you had _learned_ , angel: Humans make you _weak_.”

He advanced on Castiel, eating up the space between them far too quickly. Futile as it was, the angel lashed out with his sword to keep him back, the monster laughing at the attempt. “What will it take you to learn?” he asked as he counterattacked, missing by inches as Castiel dodged and then darted up to the safety of a tree’s branches. His heart was pounding as he took a quick glance out at the forest to see where Dean had went, but he turned back when the monster said, “Do I have to kill him in front of you to make you see?”

Whatever was in his expression gave him away, the monster’s grin splitting his face into two. “That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what will do it,” he said, as Castiel’s stomach dropped. “Maybe then you’ll finally learn.”

His empty, dark eyes, looked much like the hole inside Castiel; the angel couldn’t look away. “You, him, you’re nothing more than just animals,” the monster said, and Castiel felt himself grow cold. “You’re nothing more than just _meat._ ”

* * *

 The monster did as promised, and Cas was there to see it.

He had to watch as Dean — vibrant and bright and so full of life — nearly bled to death from a gunshot wound. He had to watch as Dean and the monster made a deal, trading Dean’s life for theirs. And Cas had to watch as Dean looked over at him, sorrow and regret and pain in his eyes that told him _, I’m so sorry. Goodbye, Cas._

There was nothing Cas could do. He couldn’t save Dean — he wasn’t strong enough, the daemons easily overpowering him, then Dean’s brother and the vampirs. It didn’t matter that Cas would have given everything to save Dean; would have taken on the monster again and again if he had to. It didn’t matter they had made promises to each other; that Cas _wanted_ to live for him. It didn’t matter that he _loved_ Dean, and Dean loved him back, and they were supposed to go home _together_.

Nothing mattered.

And as the angel was sailed away from the island and away from Dean, he finally learned that lesson.

* * *

  _“Cas, wake up. Wake up. You have to do something for me, okay?”_

_“Okay,” Cas whispered, struggling to keep his eyes open. He was so tired and in a lot of pain, but for Dean, he would stay awake. He would do anything for him._

_“You… You have to live, Cas,” Dean whispered. “Just live.”_

* * *

 “C-Castiel?”

He opened his eyes at that voice. His head was heavy as a rock, his vision was blurry too, but slowly everything came into focus. He was in white room, filled with noisy machines, his fingers curled into white sheets. There was IV attachments in his arm, and his hurt wing was trapped at his side, bandages rustling when he tried to move it. He couldn’t feel any pain however; besides the weight on his head, his body felt light, disconnected. It was an odd feeling.

 _A hospital,_ his mind supplied after a moment. He was in a hospital.

There was a movement in the corner of his eye, and he tensed instinctively. It didn’t help when it spoke to him in Enochian either, but its words were far different than the ghost’s had been. “You are safe now, brother, you are safe now.”

The angel went still when the speaker appeared before him. He recognized him: blond hair and yellow wings, the black clothes he had always favored, his smile pained and eyes wet. “ _Balthazar_ ,” the angel whispered, remembering.

“Yes, Cassie, it’s me,” Balthazar replied in gentle Enochian. The feathers on his wings lifted slightly, showing his happiness. “You’re safe now.”

The angel had to reach out, brushing his fingers along his friend’s face. Even though he touched warm skin, he still had to ask, to be sure. “Are you… Are you real?”

Balthazar grimaced, his eyes growing wetter as he nodded. He reached for his hand, holding it tightly as he took a seat next to the bed. “Yeah, I’m real, Cassie. And I’ve missed you. We all did.”

“We?” the angel asked, confused. Balthazar tilted his head slightly, wings rustling in discomfort.

“Your family, Cassie. Do you… remember them?”

 _My family,_ the angel thought. His mother and father, his blood siblings. His chosen family: Balthazar, Rachel, Anna, Hester, Inias, and Uriel. And then there was the family he would create with his partner...

_Dean._

The angel stiffened. Balthazar did too, though he grew confused when the angel whispered, “Where’s Dean?”

“Dean?” Balthazar repeated, but the angel didn’t really hear him. He found himself growing cold as he _remembered_ everything _._

 _Dean, the man Cas had saved once and who saved him in return, saying that they were going home, that they could do_ anything _. Cas’s heart had swelled, and he had drew Dean in for a kiss, pouring all his love and adoration into it. And Dean kissed him back with the same fervour, reaffirming the promises they had made to each other..._

 _Then came the final battle: gunfire filled the air; life rafts came onto the beach. Another human who had to be Dean’s Bobby came and picked him up, placing him in one of the rafts while the vampirs took the other_ —

_The first raft took off for the boat in the middle of the harbor. But before theirs could follow, there was a gunshot, the loudest one Cas had ever heard._

_It was followed by the most inhuman sound he had ever heard, Sam screaming, “Dean!”_

_That had spurred Cas to get up; fall out of the raft; crawl up the shore, getting soaked by the waves as he did. He had struggled up the rocks and sand, finally pulling himself onto the beach._

_And there was the monster, dark eyes lifting to meet his. A grin had spread across his face, and his eyes taunted him from the distance._ Watch, _they said._ **Watch.**

 _And Cas had watched, as Dean turned to look at him._ I’m so sorry, _he said_. Goodbye, Cas.

_It was then Cas died, and the angel returned._

“Cassie? Castiel?”

The angel heard his brother, but could not reply; all he could do was _remember_. He had fought to get to Dean, but had been overpowered by the daemons. Then, on the boat, he had tried to attack them again, force them to take him back to Dean. But Sam had pulled him back, and the vampir matriarch had had to bite him and put him under. The last thing the angel remembered was slumping against the boat railing as the vampir venom took hold, looking out the island where he had left Dean _behind_. And the hole inside him had grown, devoured him until there was truly nothing left except his loss. _Dean,_ he had called, _Dean._

_“Castiel.”_

For as long as the angel could remember, the hole inside of him had asked him to accept what he was, promising peace if he did. The angel had no will to fight it anymore; no will, full stop. He had learned his lesson, and he had learned his lesson well, just as the monster had promised he would. Dean was gone, and nothing mattered; he was just meat.

_“Cassie, what is it? What’s wrong? Castiel, please.”_

The angel closed his eyes, welcoming the darkness. But as he did, he thought he heard Dean’s voice again, whispering to him as if from one of his dreams.

_I believe in you._


	4. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Mentions of amputation. This chapter also takes place before the ending of Chapter 3.

_Watching his brother get shot was something Sam would never be able to get forget._

_Finding Dean in the forest was another._

_The moment the boat came into range of a cell signal, Sam had called everyone he knew could help him. Within two hours, he had an FBI tactical team, SWAT, the National Guard and the Coast Guard meeting them in the middle of the ocean. Their giant boats convened around their much smaller one, helicopters coming in to hover over them as well. As soldiers and agents came onto the fishing boat for an impromptu war meeting with Sam, medics loaded up their injured and young onto the helicopters to take them to the mainland. Bobby and the vampir matriarch stayed behind, Andrea’s insights on the island crucial to the few non-human species in the ranks._

_Near the end of the war meeting, while Sam was explaining what they were up against — what a Leviathan was, and why that made Roman so dangerous — the daemon, Wash, interrupted them. She was still in contact with the two demons on the island via radio, and she grew pale as she listened to whatever they said. Then she turned to Sam, her eyes so wide he could see the blues of her irises against her black scleras._

_“They’re saying he’s dead,” she said and Sam’s heart stopped in his chest. “They’re saying Roman’s_ dead _.”_

 _The plan to infiltrate the island was dropped at that, though they still armed themselves to the teeth before they landed. Sam couldn’t help insisting on that — even though he had heard Wash say Roman was dead, he couldn’t quite believe it. (Roman, a Leviathan, the most powerful species outside of angels, was dead? It couldn’t be.) Hearing that Dean was there too, still_ alive _but in desperate need for emergency medical attention, Sam didn’t want to take any chances that Roman was simply injured or this was all a trick._

_They landed on the shoreline that only hours earlier, Sam and the others had sailed away from. One of the daemons met them there, a giant hellhound at his side, and he led them into the ghost’s forest. Along the way, Sam started to recognize exactly where they were — even spotted one of his early signals that he had set traps somewhere close by — but that was forgotten when he started to see the evidence of his brother’s last few hours._

_It was there Sam learned that Roman had hunted him._

_The signs were everywhere. Bloody strips of clothing scattered the ground and tree branches like the remains of a dog’s torn open toy. Tree branches were broken here and there, and there were long tracks in the dirt that Sam realized were from a body being dragged around. There was blood_ everywhere _too_ _(so much blood)_ : _glistening on ferns, dotting the ground and tree trunks, sprayed along the white snow and rocks. Sam lost track of how much he saw, and the sick feeling in his stomach only grew._

_Then they came to his traps, Sam’s mouth falling open when he saw what had happened. He had built the traps when he had first been released on the island (and when still had the energy to), convinced Roman would come after him at some point. He built the deadliest traps he knew, though he had had no idea if they’d actually work or not if it came to it — all the stories said Leviathans could take a lot of damage that would kill anyone else and then some._

_And the stories were right, it seemed. The traps had hurt Roman, badly, but they hadn’t been what killed him in the end. That had been a wooden stake through his neck, the last remains of a pig spear trap clutched tight in Dean’s cold hand. The holes that had left behind seemed so small compared to the holes that littered Roman’s body from the traps, but the pool of blood around his head showed how much damage it caused. There was a look of surprise on Roman’s face too, as if he had died not understanding what was happening. The snow was stained black around his half-frozen body, rows of white teeth glistening in the moonlight like crystals._

_But just as with the traps, Sam forget everything the second he saw his brother. Dean was half-sitting against a tree trunk, the monster’s body draped over his legs. He didn’t respond when they approached or when Sam yelled his name, and Sam’s stomach dropped as he raced over. He accidentally bumped into the daemon standing guard and nearly stumbled over Roman’s body in his rush, dropping to his knees the moment he was there. “Dean,” he babbled through tears as he reached for his brother, cupping his cheeks in his hands. “Dean,_ Dean _.”_

 _His brother still didn’t respond; he didn’t even appear to be conscious despite his one open eye (the other was swollen shut). He was icy cold to the touch and covered in blood, ripped and torn clothes not hiding how savagely he had been mauled. Between the lacerations, the blood and the remains of his knee, Sam had no idea if he was even alive at first glance. But he_ was _: Sam’s heart leaping when he realized Dean’s chest was slowly rising, up and down, up and down. Letting out a weak sob, he pulled his brother into a gentle hug, relief flooding through him._

_“It’s okay now, Dean, it’s okay,” he reassured him instinctively, as he pulled back to look at his brother again. He hesitated then, noticing that Dean’s eye had shifted from staring into nothing to looking right at him. It was brief — the tiny flicker of Dean’s eye saying he recognized his brother — and Sam’s breath caught in his throat. But before he could even mouth “Dean,” medics swarmed around them, gently pulling Sam away from his brother. As he let go, he noticed Dean’s eye was closed now, making Sam wonder if what he had seen was real._

_Later on, he hoped it wasn’t. He didn’t want to think that after everything they’d been through — after surviving and defeating a Leviathan); after Sam finding him alive despite the odds — that that would be the last time he would ever see his brother alive and conscious._

_Sam didn’t want to learn that there were worse things than death._

* * *

_The bullet tearing through Dean’s leg; his brother falling to the ground. Dean in his arms, twisting and screaming in pain. Dean’s fingers gripping his arm; his brother looking up, the haunted look in his eyes._

_“Promise me, Sammy,” he croaked out, and Sam’s breath hitched._

_Promise me._

“Sam. Sam, wake up.”

Sam did, eyes flying open and hands going for the knife he always kept nearby. Except his hand gripped nothing, but Sam almost didn’t notice, confused by the sight of white walls with wooden paneling, with a TV high up on the ceiling and windows looking out at the mountains and a nearby city. It threw Sam off completely, making him tense — he had been _expecting_ the embers of a fire, the walls of his cave and the sounds of the nearby ocean, and this was not that. Where the hell was he? What kind of dream was this?

“Easy, Sam, easy, you were just dreaming,” said the voice, a hand lying on his shoulder. It made Sam look over, which was when he became aware of the bandages on the side of his head. It was followed by a wave of pain from a massive headache, making him see stars as his stomach lurched with nausea.

It helped orient him though, and remember everything: Dean finding him on the island; the battle they had fought to escape it; going back and finding Dean, Roman lying dead on his feet.

None of it a dream; it had been _real_.

Sam sucked in a breath, and looked around again. That was right, he was in the hospital. In Juneau, Alaska — they had come here because it was the only facility that could properly treat the injuries they all had. They had taken Dean in for emergency care, and Sam to a hospital room so he could get looked over too. It was all a kind of one long blur after that, but the last thing he really remembered was one of Dean’s doctors coming into the room around three in the morning. Dr. Mills was her name; she had the curliest brown hair Sam had ever seen. What had she said…?

_“We have no choice, Mr. Winchester,” the doctor said, dressed in blue scrubs, mask tied around his neck. “There’s too much damage to Dean’s leg; the severity of the injury is already causing complications. We need to perform an above-knee amputation immediately.”_

Sam’s heart stopped in his chest at the memory, and he felt himself grow cold.

Oh god. _Dean_.

“Sam?”

Having forgotten someone else was there, Sam jumped in surprise, before he looked over again. When he saw who it was, he had to do a double take, mouth falling open in shock. It was like when he had first seen Dean on the island, or talked to Jess on the phone: Sam, for a moment, wondered if he was dreaming again. That he would wake up and still be on the island, a long day of searching for food and firewood ahead of him. He suddenly felt so small, voice rough as he whispered, “Victor?”

In a suit and tie, sporting a thick, black row of stubble-going-on-beard, it couldn’t be anyone _but_ Victor Henriksen, aka Special Agent Henriksen of the FBI. He grinned ear to ear when Sam said his name, eyes crinkling at the corner as he gave Sam's shoulder a tight squeeze. “The one and only,” he teased, before he pulled back and folded his arms over his chest. “It’s good to see you, Winchester. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

Sam felt his throat close up. He almost couldn’t believe it. It was Victor, his friend; Victor, his fellow partner in (fighting) crime. They had known each other since Sam was fresh out of law school, and Victor was a detective with the NYPD, both working on a number of cases together. They had become good friends because of it, a friendship that remained strong even when Victor had moved onto the FBI, and Sam into white-collar crimes. Sam had occasionally invited him over to watch the game, which usually ended with Victor and him arguing QB stats, while Dean yelled at them to shut up because “both your teams suck.” They shared a love for crime books and shows on serial killers, and they often met at the gym to spar and bitch about cases. Victor was one of the few friends Sam had — “practically family,” Dean had called him — and who he trusted with his life.

It had always helped having a friend in the FBI, too, especially now: He had been the one Sam had called on the boat, knowing if anyone could get him the resources he needed, it was Victor. And Victor had come through immediately. He had had let out a string of curses when he recognized Sam’s voice, and then again when Sam couldn’t give him too many details why he need the equivalent of an army ASAP. But he had started making phone calls right then and there, cursing out who he was talking to too. _“I’ll fill out whatever fucking paperwork you need afterward,”_ he had snapped to whomever he had called. _“Just commandeer your local SWAT team_ now _, this is an emergency.”_

Talking to Victor, and seeing Victor were two different things, however. Sam wanted to touch him, make sure he was actually there; his hands twitched with the urge. He wanted to ask him if he was real too, but his brain was working enough that he managed, “I-I can’t believe it. W-What are you doing here?” instead. Less embarrassing that, even if it made Victor grin again.

“I was finishing up a case in California; thought I’d swing by to see how my old friend was doing,” Victor replied, and even listening to him was _amazing,_ Sam thought _._ Many people thought Victor was cocky or never took things too seriously, but they couldn’t be further from the truth. He read situations and knew when it was better to be funny or kind. “Has anyone told you that you look like shit by the way?”

Sam couldn’t help it: He laughed. He could only imagine what he looked like: His hair past his shoulders, his unkempt beard, his eye and the side of his head covered in bandages, the IV in his arm, the fact that he was severely underweight. He had seen how Dean and Bobby had looked at him and known that he didn’t make a pretty sight. But Victor didn’t look at him like he was one second from falling over, which Sam appreciated. “Not in words,” he admitted weakly.

“Well, let me be the first to say it to you, Winchester: You look like _shit_ ,” Victor shot back, and Sam laughed again.

It had been so long that he had laughed just because, but the feeling didn’t last long. Panic seized Sam only a second later, and he sat up from the hospital bed, accidentally jerking forward the stand carrying his IV bag and other fluids. “What are you doing here, Victor?” he asked again frantically, heart pounding. “Jess? My girls? Are they okay?” Roman’s forces hadn’t retaliated, had they? They hadn’t sent Victor in to tell him _that_ , had they?

The last Sam had heard was that Jess and girls _were_ okay — one of the Alaskan FBI agents who had come to take his statement had confirmed that they were in a safe house in California. And Victor did the same in a heartbeat, nodding quickly, gripping his shoulder again. “They are, they’re safe, we got them in the of the U.S. Marshals,” he reassured, and Sam melted with relief. Oh, thank _God_. Victor put on another smile, voice softer now, “From what I hear, your kids are making their assigned agents fall in love with them. I won’t be surprised if you got yourself another pair of babysitters when this is all over.”

Sam couldn’t help huffing out another laugh at that — his girls always had that effect on people — before he had to cover his eyes and take a deep breath. _They’re safe, they’re safe,_ he told himself, trying not to calm his pounding heart. It wasn’t easy, his body shaking and tears pricking his good eye. But he told it to himself again, like a mantra, a hymn: Jess. Joan. Mary. Dean. They were all safe. _Alive_. His family was okay. (Even Dean, though Sam didn’t want to think of what that had cost his brother…)

“God, sorry, Vick,” he told Victor after a moment, embarrassed by his reaction. But Victor told him it was fine, taking a seat across in a blue chair across from the bed and leaving Sam to compose himself. Grateful for that, Sam sucked in another breath and willed his hands to stop shaking, reminding himself again that it was _okay_. When he finally managed to put himself back together, he looked back up at his friend, and his heart swelled swiftly. The reason his family was safe was because of _him_ actually, and Sam found himself babbling that out, “God, Victor, it’s great to see you, you have no idea. And _thank you_ , for what you did, for helping me. If it hadn’t been for you—”

“Easy, Sam it’s way too early for us to be this sentimental,” Victor teased again, but the look in his eyes said he didn’t mean it. “I mean, you probably should pay the medical bills with that heart attack you almost gave me, but I’ll settle on a round of beer.”

“Deal,” Sam muttered weakly, twitching weakly. And he was suddenly flooded with gratefulness that he _could_ get a beer, when only the day before, he had wondered how he would get together enough food to survive winter. The whole concept was amazing, like magic or something. “Whole round of beers,” he muttered quietly.

Something in Sam’s voice made Victor’s smile faltered slightly, his eyes flickering over him once. But he didn’t comment on it, Sam thankful for that, realizing how he had zoned out. “Might be a couple dozen rounds of beer, gotta be honest,” Victor said after a beat, and then looked down at his lap. Sam noticed then the case file that he had there, stuffed full of reports and photos. “I read some of the initial reports and, you’ll have to pardon my French, but _fuck,_ Sam.”

Sam grew confused, sitting up in bed again. “Have you been assigned to the investigation?” he asked.

It didn’t make sense if he was, so Sam was surprised when Victor nodded. “Not officially yet, but the paperwork is already being put together,” he said as he looked back up. “Considering how big this is, Sam, this place is going to be crawling with every agent we got soon enough. And wait until _Interpol_ shows up. It’ll be old-fashioned shit show then.”

That made sense; it would take months, if not _years,_ to figure everything out. And Roman’s operation had crossed international lines; intergovernmental agencies would be all over this. Still, that didn’t answer his question, and he gave a slight shake of his head. “But you’re _violent crimes_ , Victor. A lot of people died, but I doubt they’ve declared anything as a homicide yet...”

Victor huffed a laugh, ducking his head; he suddenly looked embarrassed, which Sam didn’t know what to make of. “Funny you should mention that,” he drawled with another grin, glancing up at him. “I actually moved to white collar crimes about five months ago when a friend of mine disappeared. You would never believe where he ended up either — _Alaska_ of all places. But I can’t complain: I got a good team under me. And a chance to put rich guys in jail is pretty damn satisfying.”

Sam had gone still, utterly surprised. Had he heard Victor right? Victo had moved divisions... for _him_? But why? He never got a chance to ask, as Victor, opening up his case file, muttered, “I do wish I had gone into human trafficking now, but hindsight is 20/20 as they say. But I suppose in this case, it isn’t going to matter. This case covers it all, looks like.”

Sam didn’t respond, still trying to process what Victor had said he had done. Victor looked back at him then, expression serious. All pretense was gone now; seemed even Victor couldn’t find anything funny with everything he had read. “Fuck, Sam,” he repeated, “What _happened_ out there?”

Sam twitched. Part of him didn’t want to talk about it, but the other part of him knew how important it was that he did. But he figured Victor didn’t really want the personal gory details yet either — all he had to do was look at Sam to know it hadn’t been pretty.

Sam glanced down at the case file again, wondering at what stages it was at right now. There was already so much: Roman’s human trafficking operation; the island where people were hunted; Castiel, the angel the whole nation had mourned when he disappeared, being alive; the dead Leviathan who happened to also be one of the most powerful men in the world. If Victor’s case file even covered a fraction of that, Sam would have been surprised. Either way, it didn’t make his job easier. Where did he even _begin_?

Thankfully Victor knew more than most; Sam had confided in him about a few things he had learned before Roman had snatched him up. Nothing that would have endangered Victor thankfully; Sam wouldn’t have wanted that on his conscious. “You remember the case I had been working on before I… Before I disappeared? About Dick Roman?”

“The case that ended with you disappearing for six months? Yeah, I remember.” Victor slowly shook his head, glancing back down at the case file again. “I knew Roman was involved somehow with your disappearance, but hell if I could prove it. So he took you to that island out there; kept you captive on it?”

Sam could only mutter a quiet ‘yes,’ which Victor didn’t comment. He only frowned, eyes lifting to meet his again. “And you were there with whatever the fuck that, that… _Monster_ is, down in the morgue?”

Sam almost laughed again; funny how everyone ended up calling Roman ‘monster’ one way or another. Seemed universal. “ _That’s_ Roman, Victor.”

Victor’s eyes bulged a little, mouth falling open. Sam didn’t blame him: Despite all they had seen in their careers, not much could compare to a man who could hide an entire face full of teeth. “Well, fuck me,” Victor muttered, eyes growing distant for a moment. “All those rumors about him not being human were true, huh? _Damn_.”

Sam snorted in surprise. “You watched _The Rise of Dick?”_ he asked incredulously. That was a fringe documentary that declared Roman was a lizard person — and was obviously true in hindsight.

“Don’t fucking remind me of that thing, I’m still recuperating brain cells,” Victor shot back, shaking his head like he had tasted something sour. Then he looked back at him, expression growing somber again. “So Dean found you? Got you out?”

Sam’s heart dropped, and he had to look away then. His hands started shaking again, and he dug them into his blanket, hoping to hide it. “Yeah,” he whispered weakly, trying not to think too hard about his brother. Dean, who was currently losing his leg as they spoke; Dean who had sacrificed himself for all of them. “He save me. Saved all of us.”

Victor seemed to sense he had said something wrong, or maybe just noticed that Dean wasn’t there with them and how unusual that was. It was Sam’s turn to reassure him, trying for a smile but failing miserably. “He got hurt pretty bad. He’s with the doctors now.”

Sam couldn’t say the rest though, and Victor had already looked away. He and Dean were good friends too, probably closer than Sam and Victor were. They shared a similar history, both teenagers during the war looking out for siblings, and both in the military. They too hung out sometimes, going to the bars to drink, play pool and occasionally went and saw a baseball game together.

Victor took his moment, and then sighed softly, eyes closing. “He never did stop looking for you,” he said quietly, and Sam flinched. (God, he still wished Dean _had_ stopped. That he had never found out about the island...)

Victor took a deep breath, and when he looked back up at Sam, he was composed again. “I’m glad he was able to find you,” he said gruffly, and then smiled. “What you were both able to get us… We’ve only started cracking that data file you brought us, but some of the stuff coming off it? Well, all I can say is: _Damn._ ”

Sam frowned. So the data file the daemons gave him in exchange for immunity did have some value, he thought. He wondered where the daemons were now; if their families had been taken to safety too, like they had wanted. “Is it helping? Giving you insights into Roman’s network?”

Victor nodded, and then flipped the case file around to show Sam a sketch of a Hispanic-looking man. “They told us to look for a guy known as ‘The Enforcer,” he explained, tapping the photo with a finger. “The way the daemons put it, he ran Roman’s entire operation, snatching up the people wanted. He goes by the name Edgar, according to the daemons.”

That name seemed familiar, but Sam couldn’t place why. Victor let out a sigh, and gave another shake of his head. “Problem is, the daemons don’t know _where_ he is. No one does. We’re hoping the data gives us a clue, but hell if we’re hot running out of time. The moment the press gets wind of what’s happening here…”

It was going to be a ‘shit show,’ as Victor would say. And it would be: This would be the biggest story of the century, between Castiel being found, Roman being a Leviathan, and just the existence of the island itself. But the moment it all got out, it would alert Roman’s network that something had happened, and probably drive them underground. They couldn’t let that happen — Sam couldn’t let that happen.

There was only one thing to do. “Can I help?” Sam asked, hands twitching.

Victor started, surprised. Then he looked at Sam, frowning. “Help?” he repeated, like Sam had said something in French or something.

Sam nodded quickly. Now that the idea was in his head, he suddenly wanted it badly. _Needed_ it. “Roman destroyed my original case notes, but I remember a lot of it. I could analyze the data you get in, try to find the ‘Enforcer.’ His name seems familiar, too, but I can’t tell you why just yet.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed, like again he didn’t understand what Sam was saying. He closed the case file shut and then slowly rose from his seat. “Sam,” he said with a laugh and another grin, shaking his head again. “Good on you for wanting to get off the bench, but I promise, we _got_ this. I have one hell of a team on this. You should concentrate on getting better.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Sam protested, but Victor cut him off.

“I talked to Bobby out in the lobby — he said the doctors still had you ‘under observation.’ You’re under orders to rest, not play crime fighter.”

Sam winced. That was true. The doctors had been concerned about possible nutritional deficiencies and the effect the stress from living on the island had affected him. Not to mention, there was damage from his bullet graze to the head, his eye still swollen shut. That was why had IVs and nutrients pumping into his arm for the time being, and the orders to take it easy. But that didn’t mean Sam couldn’t help in some way or other, even if he worked from a hospital bed.

He told Victor the very same thing, but his friend was not convinced. “ _Sam_ ,” he said, not sounding happy at all. And it was saying something that he was making Victor look very, very worried, even as he tried to hide it with another wide grin. “I understand where you’re coming from, I do, but you need to concentrate on getting better. And, you know, shaving. Also, putting on some weight. Look, man, I gotta be honest, you’re going to give Jess a goddamn heart attack if she sees you like this, and I don’t need that on my conscience.”

Jess’s name made Sam flinch and look away. “As if Jess will want to see _me_ ,” he muttered without thinking, and Victor let out a sound.

“What?” he said, and Sam winced, realizing what he had said out loud. Worse, Victor was now scrutinizing him, trying to suss out what he had meant by that. (Sam imagined his first thought would be that Sam was talking about his looks.) That was the last thing he wanted: For Victor to deny that, and tell him Jess would still want him. She wouldn’t, not after what Sam had done to her and the girls.

Not only had he put them in danger by researching Roman in the first place, but then again when he had escaped the island, especially if the Enforcer wanted payback. Plus, there was what he had done to Dean — his brother was losing his leg _right now_ because of him; Dean had been torn apart by Roman, because of _him_. And that wasn’t even taking into account Sam’s original sin: Not helping the people trapped on the island in the first place, instead thinking they were animals just like Roman had...

“Sam,” Victor began, but there was a God, because a knock on the door interrupted him. They both looked at it as it opened, and in popped a young woman with the long, wavy red hair and thick spare glasses. She was wearing the brightest clothes that Sam had seen in _months,_ which included a Star Wars shirt, a bright, blue sweater and jeans. She glanced at Sam briefly, but her attention was right back on Victor, her smile bright.

“Hey, Boss-man,” she said. Sam did another double-take. She was _FBI?_ “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s kind of important.”

“It always is, Charlie,” Victor said, voice laced with amusement. It was a tone that Sam had never heard from before, and the look on his face matched it. Affectionate, like Charlie was his daughter or something. “What is it?”

“Uh, well, Agent Walker called. He’s stuck at the station, and he was hoping you could be a liaison for our super-duper important guests.” Charlie shifted nervously, teeth pressing together in a grimace. “Who are here. Like. _Right now_.”

“Oh _hell_ ,” Victor breathed, and Sam frowned, confused. He glanced back at Victor, who met his gaze with a curse. “The _angels_ are here.”

“And not for the phone box,” Charlie muttered, but it mostly seemed to herself. Sam almost didn’t hear her, the news making him stiffen in surprise. Angels were _here_? For Castiel?

He grew cold again on the thought; oh god, _Castiel._ The last time he had seen the angel, it was as they were loading him into the helicopter to take him to the mainland. He had been fighting against vampir venom at the time — the matriarch having to bite him to calm him down after he had tried to attack the daemons — pushing at the medics trying to strap him down, his good wing flapping weakly. _“_ Dean,” he had kept murmuring over and over, his pupils slits against the blues of his eyes. “Dean, _Dean_.”

Sam grimaced. With everything that had happened, he hadn’t even _thought_ to ask about Castiel. A wave of guilt went through him, and he clutched the blanket again, trying not to think of Dean’s last words to him.

_Promise me, Sammy._

Victor was already on the move, telling Charlie something that sounded like, _see if you can temporarily disable cell phone and Internet access — I don’t need this shit on the web,_ and Charlie nodding as if that was actually possible. She darted away, and Victor looked back at Sam, adjusting his tie and suit. “I gotta go, Sam, sorry. I’ll probably be handling the angels until we can get Walker back in. But we’re not done talkin’, alright? I’ll have some choice words for you later.”

Sam winced slightly — so he would try to talk to him about Jess, wouldn’t he? — and Victor shot him a warning glance before he was out the door.

But Sam was right on his heel; well, sort of. He got out of bed, though he immediately had to catch himself on it when a wave of dizziness hit him. It faded quickly enough, Sam able to shake it off before he looked around to where his pants had went. Dressed only in a hospital gown, he figured he owed people that much.

Dean, as a combat medic and an almost fully trained nurse, and Jess, a doctor-in-training, would have been furious for him for sneaking out of his room. But he wheeled out his IV stand with him, silently appeasing them both, and shuffled bare-foot down the hallway toward where he knew the waiting room was. The hospital wasn’t that big — designed only to house two hundred people maximum — and it was easy to figure out where the waiting room was. Nurses were headed there, trying to not look like they were running, and even a few patients had taken Sam’s initiative, sneaking outside too. The hallway entrance was quickly becoming jammed up, but that was okay; Sam had the advantage of being taller than almost everyone he met, and he could see over everyone’s heads.

And it was a sight. One few people ever got witness; Sam himself had only seen it once when he was eight-years-old. And just like back then, when the angels entered the room, the whole atmosphere changed inside, everyone going completely still. It was hard to say what it was about angels that did that: maybe the way they moved with perfect formation in rows of two, the way they expressed so little emotion, or it was just their wings, ranging in color from brown to yellow (and one set of red). Maybe it was just them themselves, projecting an aura that demanded awe and worship. Sam had heard and seen crazier things in his time.

It reminded of him when he had first seen Castiel on the island too, in his first month in. He had been near the meadow, working on making rope out of the reeds, when a flock of birds had been startled into the air. The reason why became clear when an _angel_ had crested the rock, completely naked, great wings lifted high up, still glorious despite how they had been damaged. (They had still been black then too.) Sam had nearly dropped his rope in utter shock, as it had been the last thing he had been expecting to see. He had ended up watching him the angel, who had been looking for something in the water. With a flick of his wrist, he had thrown something into the pool so fast it was nothing more than a silver blur. It turned out to be his blade, two fish stuck on it, flapping around weakly as the angel retrieved his prize. And just like that, the entire thing taking only a handful of seconds, the angel had disappeared back into the grasses like he had never been there. Sam hadn't seen him again for another two months.

By then, Sam no longer felt awe for the angel. He no longer felt much of anything.

Wincing at the memory, Sam tuned back in when he saw the angels had made it to Victor. They hadn’t acknowledged the crowd of humans and non-humans gathered around either, their focus solely on a waiting Victor. And Sam could see Victor shift uncomfortably at the scrutiny, but he was a complete professional about it.

He flashed them his badge and then held out his hand to the angel leading the group, who took it in a firm shake. The angel was shorter than the others, but his brown wings were much larger, towering high over his shoulders. He looked familiar to Sam too, and he realized why when Victor said, “Gabriel Agnes, Agnes host. Welcome. I’m Special Agent Victor Henriksen.”

Sam didn’t hear what Gabriel said, as the angel at his side joined the doctor that was waiting beside Victor. The angel was looking at a tablet in her hand, and immediately they both started talking like they were familiar to each other. Sam heard mentions of “transfusions” and “possible surgery on his wing,” while Victor gestured the other angels to another hallway. “We prepared a special room for you,” he said, and the angels immediately started following. “I know you probably have a lot of questions, and I promise I’ll answer as many as I can.”

One of the angels broke formation briefly, the blond feathers on his wings rising up in clear anger. “ _‘Bout bloody time_ ,” he snarled, earning him a dark look from a blond female angel at his side. The angel snorted in reply, but he said no more, falling back into line as Victor led them out of the room.

The moment they left, an excited round of whispers started among the crowd, most looking at their cell phones. Sam didn’t blame them, though he was disappointed for different reasons. He had wanted to find out information on Castiel; see if he was okay...

“Sam? Sam Winchester?”

Sam looked behind him in surprise. His heart leaped when he realized who it was behind him, and he quickly turned around to face her. “Doctor Mills,” he breathed, clutching his IV bag stand so it didn’t fall over. The doctor looked confused, probably wondering why he was out of his room. Sam didn’t want to explain, only wanting to know one thing. “D-Dean. Do you have news about Dean? Is he okay? Is he out of surgery?”

The way Dr. Mills glanced away was not comforting at all. Sam felt a spike of fear, knowing immediately something was wrong. Something bad had happened to Dean, and the doctor confirmed it when she shook her head.

“Mr. Winchester. I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” she said slowly. “There’s been some... complications.”

* * *

 _Complications_.

It really wasn’t a good word, Sam thought later as he looked down at Dean in the hospital bed. He was lost in a sea of tubes and wires and bandages, the blanket dipping where his leg had been. The heart monitor beeped endlessly, oxygen tanks hissing, but both weren’t enough to drown out the words that kept repeating themselves over and over in his mind.

_Dean’s in a coma._

_Complications,_ Sam thought again. It wasn’t really a good word to describe having your world end all over again.

He knew one thing: He would never forget the sight of Dean here and now. Or the moment he learned that yes, there were worse things than death.


	5. A Crown of Thorns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details about the vampire family are mentioned in Chapter 15 of _The Hunted_. But here's also a quick overview: Andrea's nest is composed of the remains of three different nests. It consists of Benny (the Lafitte family), Sophia and Drake (the Solokov family) and Andrea and Elpis (of the American and Greek Kormos families respectively).
> 
> The implied child abuse/endangerment tag applies here. (Though it's more referencing endangerment.) The first half of the chapter takes place before chapter 2, while the latter half takes place before chapter 4.

The matriarch always did what was best for the nest.

That was what all vampir females were taught; as matriarch, it was what Andrea lived by. If her nest was doomed to be animals on the island, she had vowed keep them as well fed, strong and happy as she possibly could. While she was young, years younger than when most female vampirs inherited such a high rank, the nests of the island had needed someone to take control and unite them, the lack of a matriarch making them weak as a whole. When she had been raised by two powerful matriarchs herself — her grandmother and her great aunt (who had also been a well-respected Greek politician) — Andrea knew what the position would demand of her, and rose to the challenge.

That meant she had no regrets when she lost her left eye to secure her place as matriarch. (She had even taken pleasure in ripping out the throat of the patriarch abomination that had been the leader before her.) She felt no remorse when she had killed who and what she had to to keep her nest fed and content — even if it was her own kind. She had even been willing to take on the angel guarding a human if it meant a chance at their first real meal in almost three weeks. And, despite her hunger, it meant being willing to let that human go.

It meant acknowledging that, even with her best efforts, she could only keep her nest strong and happy for so long on the island. That Dean’s arrival left her at a crossroads, and choosing to trust him — as much as she never wanted to trust a _human —_ would mean the difference between life and death.

So she did what was for the best the nest, as all the matriarchs had before her. No matter the pain; no matter the cost. There was no room for doubts either; no room to think about what that cost truly was. There was no time to wonder if the matriarchs before her had ever doubted themselves; if they ever wondered if they _themselves_ were what was best for the nest.

In fact, Andrea had never thought about those things until the raft crested the last of the waves, and they headed for open sea and the waiting boat beyond. Then, and only then, did she begin to _wonder_.

It was in a moment of complete silence except for their breathing and the sounds of the water lapping against the side of the raft. There was no need to scent the air for danger or listen for movement in the trees; there were no hunts to plan, or new nesting spots to search for. There was nothing but the open water, Andrea's nest at her side and the sudden realization that, for the first time in almost three years, they were _safe_.

It made Andrea’s skin crawl, her breathing speed up, heartbeat in her ears. The word “safe” didn’t even make _sense_ in her mind. And it was strange to think that after everything she had been through — being tortured by demons, having her eye torn out by a mad patriarch, her stomach trying to eat itself in hunger, the monster preying on her nest half a dozen times — this was what made her clam up. Her sharp nails dug into the thick plastic of the oar she was holding, and she felt her entire body tense up, ready to fight. Instinct told her it was _wrong, wrong, wrong_ ; assuming that they were ever _safe_ would put the nest in danger and—

“Would you look at that.”

That was Benny, his familiar Southern drawl shooting through the fog of her mind. Her eyes sought him out instinctively, Benny lying in between two seats of the raft so he wouldn’t further injure his hurt ribs. Little Drake and Elpis were curled up against the crook of his uninjured arm; Sophia was the opposite side of the boat, holding an oar close to her body since she couldn’t properly move her arm with her hurt shoulder. Andrea’s own side ached from where a demon’s bullet had grazed it, a pain she steadfastly ignored.

They all were looking up toward the sky, and Andrea’s eyes followed their gaze. Despite the bright light from the nearby boat, they could still see the sky clearly, the void dotted with millions of little lights in between parting clouds. Benny hummed gently, the smile in his voice. “Look how beautiful they are.”

“The stars?” Elpis asked, the night sky reflected in the iridescent green of her eyes. The breeze coming off the waves batted around her hair, still done up in a braid that all Kormos women wore. She looked so much like her late mother, Andrea’s cousin, that it made the matriarch’s heart ache just looking at her. It had been almost two years since Elpis’s mother had died from a serious injury; two years since Andrea had swore to her dying cousin she would watch over her daughter. It was the only peace she could give her cousin as she bled out in Andrea's arms. 

“The stars,” Benny agreed, drawing Andrea out of her dark thoughts. He had started to hum through his vocal cords, in what humans might have called a _purr_ ; it was a signal that everything was alright, _they_ were alright. It eased some of the tension in Andrea’s muscles, her nails unhooking from the oars as she took in a deep breath. Benny knew what he was doing, the thrum growing stronger as he looked between Elpis and Sophia, saying, “We’ve never have much time to look at the stars, have we?”

 _We haven’t_ , Andrea thought as she looked up at the stars again. Why would they? Their nights were spent hunting down food and moving from nest to nest, never staying in one place for more than a few nights. In between that, they had to teach the children: how to hunt, how to avoid demons and hide from the monster if it came down to it. There was little time for anything else, though Benny had always tried to turn training into a fun game or teach them through a story.

The children loved his stories too, even Sophia, who had proclaimed herself too old for such things. Benny knew a lot of them — ones his old nest, long dead now, had passed down from generation to generation. He had continued the tradition with his new nest, and the children always loved curling up against him in the mornings, letting him lull them into sleep. Even Andrea liked them, for they always had a kernel of wisdom within them, something that would help them survive on their own if something ever happened to the adults. That had become increasingly important the more time that went on, and the more adults in the nest died off until she and Benny were the last ones.

There were never stories of children outwitting monsters, however; Benny wouldn’t give them false hope, nor would Andrea have let him. Hope was a human concept; she would not be so cruel to let her nest believe in the things (in _humanity_ ) when that had been the reason they were brought to the island in the first place.

But they were no longer on the island. And thinking on it, Andrea wondered if she should have let her nest have those stories.

“Did you see that? A shooting star,” Benny said then, dragging Andrea out of her thoughts once more. She looked down at them, Benny shifting his arm to curl it tighter around Drake and Elpis. His blue eyes flicked over to them, smile growing at their awed expressions. “You know what they say about shooting stars, don’t you? That if you make a wish on one, it’ll come true.”

Andrea bristled before she realized it, force of habit making her want to tell Benny off. _Don't give them false hope,_ she had always lectured him, but she found herself hesitating when he shot her a glance. In it, was a plea: _W_ _ait, please_.

Sophia let out a scoffing sound in between the silent exchange, her bright yellow eyes turning to Benny. “Isn’t that a old human legend?” she asked, deep voice rough from exhaustion. She looked it too, black mane of hair plastered to her forehead, her breathing still heavy as if she had run for several miles. After helping Dean and Sam fight to keep demons off the beach, even taking on a hellhound to save Dean and Benny, it was no surprise how tired she was. Sophia was so young but so very brave, a testament to the strength and determination that had defined her late Solokov nest members.

“Who’s to say the humans didn’t learn it from us?” Benny shot back playfully. Sophia shut her mouth, obviously thinking that over; Benny smiled and then looked back at the stars. “It was said that a shooting star is a sign that Mother sends to us, reminding us she's watchin’ over us. And if we make a wish to her in that moment, she may even grant it."

Andrea looked up at the stars again. It had been a long time since she had thought of the Mother (also known as Eve, to most humans’ irritation), let alone even thought to pay her respects to her. It was a matriarch’s duty to guide the nest in such things; to teach them the lessons the Mother was said to have taught the first matriarch. They were also to guide them in the rituals and to teach them how to pay their respects, what gifts of wine and blood they were to leave her. Andrea could remember the prayers her aunt would lead her into every Saturday, the heavy smell of incense and blood surrounding the family altar.

Vampirs — most non-humans, really — had a much different relationship with their goddess than the humans had with their gods. Unlike the human’s various gods, said to be benevolent and always listening to their prayers, the Mother was different. Long ago, she had given her children everything they needed to survive and thrive, trusting them to take care of themselves. She wasn’t known for listening to any pleas for help; only in the most extreme of circumstances would she come to her children’s aid.

What counted as _extreme,_ Andrea couldn’t even imagine.

“Maybe we should make a wish, see if she hears us,” Benny said then, and that made Andrea stiffen, her eyes falling back to him. She almost snapped at him again, but hesitated once more when Elpis and Sophia looked over at her. In their eyes was a cautious optimism, as if they were hoping Andrea would give them _permission_ to do so. That made Andrea tense, realizing that if they wanted their matriarch’s blessing before speaking to the Mother, that was wrong. They should have never had any doubts that they could or should speak to the goddess, and it was on Andrea for failing to teach them that. It was embarrassing; shameful really. 

Still, she struggled to say yes to them. They were no longer on the island, but part of her still wanted to say _no_  to anything that range of false hope.

It physically hurt to give the shortest of nods, and she had to look away from them after she did.

“Alright, close your eyes,” Benny murmured, and Andrea glanced back when his hand lifted up toward her. She noticed that Sophia, Elpis and even Drake had closed their eyes, but Benny was looking at her, blue eyes warm. He silently asked that she take his hand, while he murmured to the children, “And make your wish.”

 _It’s okay to hope now,_ he silently said to her when she reached over to grasp his hand in return. His thumb ran along her fingers, his smile gentle and warm. _It’s okay_.

But just as the idea of _safe_ was foreign, Andrea didn’t know what to think about _hope_.

Everything about it screamed _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

* * *

After years on the island, Andrea’s senses were highly tuned, and something she took immense pride in. She could hear a heartbeat from nearly fifty yards away; hear something as small as a vole moving through the grass from nearly seventy-five yards. She could pick apart various scents better than anyone else had been able to, knowing by smell alone what the weather would be like, if there was food nearby, where the angel and werewolf were, how close the demons were to the nest. Probably her worse sense was her sight, but even though she was blind on her left side, it seemed liked she had developed a sixth sense to make up for it. She instinctively knew when something was coming at her from that side when she hadn’t smelled or heard them yet, a fact that had caught a number of her enemies by surprise. 

She relied so heavily on her senses that the hospital threw her off completely the moment she stepped off the helicopter and then followed Bobby and the officer that was with them inside the building. Her sense of hearing was already diminished by the noise from the helicopter blades, which was fine, but then she was blinded by the harsh fluorescent lights. That was followed by her sense of smell, her nose immediately filled with the overpowering smell of chemicals, drowning out all other scents. She ended up stumbling back outside, blind, deaf and anosmatic, snarling instinctively despite herself.

The complete lack of senses not only left her vulnerable, but it also reminded her of the _monster_. Only he could hide his scent perfectly, and move in damn near complete silence, and usually one only ever saw him right before he tore someone apart with his bare hands. And just the thought of him gave her chills, and with the lack of senses,  _afraid,_  even though she had seen his dead body on the island. She was just still struggling to believe he was actually  _dead,_  thought _._ It just didn’t seem _possible_ that he was, that it hadn't been some trick of the imagination—

Her sixth sense alerted her to someone approaching; she turned toward them, ready to lash out if needed. Through her blurry vision, she recognized the shape and colors of Bobby, his blue-and-white cap, brown vest and heavy orange and gray coat he was wearing. He was saying something to her, the concern on his face indicating he wanted to help, but wasn't sure what was wrong. He held an hand out to her, like he wanted to keep her from stumbling over.

While Andrea loathed showing any sort of weakness in front of anyone, _especially_ a human, Bobby also wasn’t a threat to her. He and Dean were the ones who had saved her family; she owed them both more than she could ever repay. So she fought down another snarl that wanted to make itself known, though her voice was still harsh as she snapped in explanation, “ _The lights_. _The smell._ ”

Bobby lifted his eyebrows as then glanced back toward the hospital doors. He said something she didn't hear, before he reached up and took off his hat, looking down at it before he held it out to her. Andrea didn’t understand what he was doing for an embarrassingly long moment, until it finally clicked: He was _giving_ the hat to her. The visor part could help shield her eye, and she caught a scent off it too: Seat salt and pine, smells of the island itself that helped ground her. When she put the cap on, the scent came through even over the stench of chemicals.

What she wasn't expecting was the feeling that came with wearing a hat. She couldn't really remember the last time she had worn a hat... At least until that very moment. She was suddenly hit with memories of her life before, when she had used to love wearing pairing sun hats with sunglasses and light dresses whenever she had to go out during the day. The days when she had few cares in the world, where being a matriarch was something she would be when she was much, much older. A time when she had never thought there was actually such a thing as monsters.

That was a vampir she didn’t even know anymore.

She pushed back those memories, not liking how they made her feel. The hat at least, helped, but it was a kindness she hadn’t been expecting. It left her a little flustered, but she never got a chance to thank Bobby. He was already gesturing her forward, and over the ringing of her ears, she heard him say, “Come on, let’s find out where your family is, and where Sam and Dean might be.”

Andrea wholeheartedly agreed with that decision. She was anxious to get back to her nest, since they had parted ways several hours earlier when Andrea had chosen to stay behind to help in Sam's rescue mission. Staying behind and letting her nest go on ahead hadn't been an easy decision for her; it was on par with her choosing to let demons onto the boat itself after Sam had pleaded their case. The only reason Andrea had agreed to that was because Sam had told her how much danger they were still in; that the monster would try to have them killed if they didn't act. The demons turning traitor on the monster (even if it was too little, too late in Andrea’s opinion) meant they had a chance to take the fight to him and put him on the defensive for once. Sam hadn’t been lying when he had said he had the contacts to make that happen too: Within the hour of them sailing to where he had a cell signal again, and then calling out for help, he had brought an army to their little boat.

But there was Dean; what it would take to save him. The demons knew the monster was still on the island, and Sam wanted to move in quickly to rescue his brother, arresting or killing the monster while he was at it. He planned to bring that army with him, but one problem had made itself clear from the get-go: None of the soldiers SWAT and agents had any idea what they were going up against. How the monster smelled, how fast he moved — it wasn’t like anything they had ever seen before, and it couldn't exactly be described to them easily. It didn’t matter how armed they were either: All the monster had to do was catch them off guard and they’d be dead before they even realized what happened.

Out of all of them, Andrea was the only one who actually knew what it was actually like to be hunted by the monster. She knew the signs to look for, and her sixth sense had always seemed to hone in to his presence whenever he was near. If the mission had any chance of success, Andrea realized she needed her to go back to the island with them.

But there was one problem with doing that: By going up against the monster, there was a chance she wouldn’t be coming back.

But that was a risk Andrea had quickly decided she was willing to take. Not only did she want to help Dean — she owed him her family’s lives after all, and she wanted to bring him back to her longtime ally, the angel — but she knew this could be the only way to stop the monster, and free her nest from his clutches for good. Before, it had been impossible: Trying to overwhelm the monster with sheer numbers had left a lot of nests decimated in the bloody history of the island. Numbers had never helped them really: Demons, well-armed and usually outnumbering them, had always been quick to put down any sort of uprising on the island. Andrea had heard the stories of attempts to turn the tide — to steal weapons, or sneak onto the smaller island where the demons and monster resided — had always ended in a blood bath.

This time, however, was different. This time, they were the ones with the weapons and the greater numbers, no demons there to help the monster. And with Andrea with them, they might actually pull it off. And once the monster was brought down, her nest would be no longer be in immediate danger; they might even be _safe_. While And while Andrea didn’t particularly like leaving her nest’s care in another’s hands, or potentially leaving them without a matriarch, she knew it would be for the best in the long run. It didn’t matter the cost or pain — a matriarch always did what was best for the nest... Even if that meant sacrificing herself to do it.

That didn’t mean the nest always had to agree with her choices.

“ _No_ ,” was the first word out of Benny's mouth when she had told him her plan. They had still been on the boat, waiting for the helicopters to come in to take them to the mainland. Benny was lying the couch inside the boat’s cabin, a paramedic at his side rewrapping his injured arm with proper bandages to replace the makeshift ones they had had on the island. His eyes had shone with unshed tears — Benny hadn't taken it well when he had learn that they were still in danger, especially after spending so long trying to convince Andrea they were safe. He seized her hand, squeezing it tightly; he had kept his voice low, so the children couldn't hear him and get scared. “No, you can’t. You’re hurt; you need to be treated too.”

Andrea had been ignoring her aching side, the way her shirt was stiff with blood. “I’m fine,” she replied to both Benny and the paramedic when he glanced at her. Sophia, sitting on the cabin floor with Drake and Elpis, shot her a worried look, but Andrea ignored that too. She would clean it later, before they landed on the island, so the smell of blood didn't give her away. But right then, she wasn't going to accept any medical care when her family needed it more.

Not that Benny approved of that either. “You’re not fine. And you can’t go _back_. Not t’ where _he_ is,” he hissed through gritted fangs, squeezing her hand again. Andrea never liked seeing him upset, but she had had to force herself to keep her gaze level and remain unmoved by his pleas. That, and Sophia’s increasingly worried and uneasy look that said she agreed with Benny. “You don’t need t’ go with them. Just tell them soldiers what to look out for; they can handle everythin’ else.”

They both knew that wasn't true. But when she had given Benny a look, he only shook his head and mumbled  _you can’t, you can't_ again. It made Andrea pause, since Benny didn’t normally fight her on the choices. In fact, he had been her rock for _years,_ since the moment she had met him on the island; half the reason she had succeeded as matriarch was his unending support. And it wasn’t uncommon for Andrea to leave the nest behind to see to their safety; though it had always upset Benny, he usually hid it from her. He usually put on a smile instead, and promised that they would be waiting for her when she returned.

Not this time. He only clutched her hand tighter, and pleaded with her. “We’ve escaped. We're finally away from that horrible place, from _him,_ ” he had said as he turned wet eyes back to her. “You can’t go back. _Please_ don’t go back. We _need_ you.”

It had been no surprise that Benny had figured out what could happen if she want back to the island. That still didn't bother her, but Benny’s lack of support _did_. It made her hesitate, because when a nest didn't like her choices, that was a red flag. While a matriarch’s will was expected to be followed, that didn’t mean the nest had to accept bad decisions on her part. And too many of them could make them reject her and leave her for a stronger, wiser leader, shunning their old matriarch while they were at it. Every vampir knew that a fate worse than death was to be rejected by a nest, but for a matriarch, it was a blasphemy onto the Mother herself. A mother who couldn’t defend her children went against everything the Mother taught them; even Andrea, mixed feelings about the goddess that she had, wouldn't want that.

But with this, she didn't see any other choice. It had to be done, even if her nest didn't like it. 

And they didn't: Benny hadn’t stopped pleading with her, Sophia's worried look hadn't gone away; even Elpis seemed to be on the verge of tears. They didn't change their minds by the time the paramedics had airlifted them away, and that bothered Andrea as she watched the helicopter fly away. For the second time that night, she found herself wondering if she had made the best decision.

In the end, however, all her worry had been for nothing. They had gone to the island and found the monster _dead_ — as much as Andrea still struggled to comprehend that — and Dean miraculously alive. Andrea had been left feeling guilty over what she had put her nest through — especially when she hadn't even been needed on the rescue mission — but she had taken comfort in the thought that she had good news for them. While they had to still had to worry about retaliation from the monster's people, but Sam's people were already working on eliminating that threat. For now, they were finally _free_ of the monster, and none of them would _ever_ to see or go back to the island ever again. Maybe she could even tell her nest that they were  _safe,_ and that it was okay to hope now.

Maybe.

That was thought on Andrea's mind as she followed Bobby and the officer into the hospital. She was momentarily overwhelmed again by all the sights and sounds: the number of officers posted at each door, the doctors and nurses moving down the hallways, the hum of the lights and sounds of machinery, the fact that she was _inside_ a building. (She had lived in caves and forests for almost three years — the straight perpendicular and parallel lines of walls and floors and ceilings were _strange_ to her senses.) People looked at her as she passed, something that ended up unnerving her too, since she wasn’t used to being so _exposed_. Humans — _prey,_ her mind supplied unhelpfully — weren’t supposed to see her coming until she had her teeth in their neck, which was also an unwelcome thought. Her stomach gurgled hungrily at just the thought of biting through their jugulars and sucking up the blood that she knew would gush forth.

The officer led them to a nurse’s station, two nurses behind a desk, their eyes immediately shooting to her. When Bobby stepped in to ask one nurse where Dean had been taken, it took her a moment to tear her eyes away. Andrea spoke to the other, try to keep her voice even to hide her annoyance at the nurse's utterly horrified look. “I’m looking for my nest. Adult male, teenage female, two children. They would have been brought in several hours ago."

The nurse blinked and then nodded briskly, saying she would lead her to them. Relieved, Andrea paused briefly to turn to Bobby to offer him back his hat, and also ask him to tell her about Dean once he had more news. At that, he borrowed a post-it note from the nurse's station and scribbled down a number on it. “Once you get a phone, you can text me,” he said as he handed it over to her. His lips twitched toward a smile. "You can keep the hat, too.”

They parted ways, and the nurse led Andrea down a hallway and through a set of doors into the non-human ward of the hospital. It was immediately clear that was what it was: Inside it was dark except for lights embedded in the baseboards of the walls, the stench of chemicals fading for a lavender smell instead. The perfect place for sensitive eyes and noses, and her sense of smell started to recover. It took a moment for Andrea’s eye to adjust going from full light to mostly dark; because of that, she never noticed the other vampir until she nearly walked into her.

Andrea nearly stumbled back in surprise, caught completely off-guard again. And then she could stare at the first vampir she had seen who wasn’t already part of her nest or one of the island’s rogues in almost half a year. She almost didn't recognize her own kind, despite her pointed ears and blue cat-like eyes, because Andrea had forgotten what a healthy vampir _looked_ like.Despite the layers of clothes she was wearing — a thick sweater, scarf, jeans with boots — they didn’t hide the fact that she was nearly three times Andrea’s size, and at the perfect-looking weight for a well-fed vampir. And she was clean too: Her paler side not coated with dirt, her dark mane of hair glossy and groomed neatly to fall around her neck. It made Andrea suddenly conscious of the dirty clothes hanging off her own skin-and-bone frame; the layer of dust, mud and dirt smeared into her skin. Bobby's hat hid her hair, at least.

The other vampir wasn’t the only one there too: There was a large male in an a green officer’s uniform by an open doorway. (And Andrea was dumbfounded by him too, having forgotten how _big_ a full-grown, healthy male vampir actually was.) Andrea could hear Benny talking to someone from inside the room that door led to, and her heart leaped, realizing that was where her nest was. Which was also where the strange vampirs were, far too close to them.

The change was instantaneous: Andrea forgot her self-consciousness, instinct rearing up instead, demanding that she chase the other vampirs away. On the island, vampirs not in her nest were automatically considered a threat that she had to eliminate. It usually had never been an issue to do so, but Andrea had to admit that this time, the vampirs in question had the advantage on her in terms of weight and size. That set her on edge too: A rule of the island was that if someone was stronger than her, it meant they could kill her and her nest and eat them that much faster…

But before she could even bare her fangs in a snarl, the other vampir noticed her. Her eyes went wide in surprise, briefly flicking over Andrea’s missing eye, before she suddenly broke into a smile. And that threw Andrea off as much as the sight of her had.

“You must be Andrea,” the other vampir said, her voice warm. She turned to Andrea, clasping her hands over a pendant hanging around her neck that had the Mother's sigil on it. “Thank the Mother — we heard you had to stay behind to help with a raid-and-rescue mission. It’s so wonderful to see that you are alright.”

That threw Andrea off. One, the other vampir knew her name, and two, she had been  _worried_ about her? Why? She was not of her nest, so why would she?

The other vampi didn’t seem to notice Andrea’s look of disbelief, her smile only growing. “My name is Lenore,” she went on. “I am the matriarch of the Lucent family. We were asked by the sheriff to come in and see to your nest’s care. You must be so anxious to see them.”

Andrea barely had time to fully think over what she said — another _nest_ was seeing to their care? A vampir doctor she understood, but not a whole nest — because she was caught off guard by the second thing she had said. "You're a matriarch?" she repeated.

"On the younger side, I know," Lenore said, voicing Andrea's thought. She had never thought to meet another matriarch close to her own age, but that did ease her concern. Another nest wasn't a threat like a rogue vampir was; two nests could get together amicably on neutral territory. But one nest didn't usually see to the care of another, unless circumstances demanded it, like the island had. Why was she here?

Lenore answered that too, gesturing Andrea forward toward the door. “My sister is the non-human physician at this hospital; she’s examining your family now,” she explained. Lenore then nodded toward the male at the doorway, who dipped his head at Andrea as she walked up. “This is my mate, Eli, an officer as you can see. He’ll take your statement at some point, I’m sure, but right now, he is on guard duty until this whole situation is resolved. The rest of my nest will be here soon. They're out picking up supplies.”

Andrea frowned at that — while was another vampir _guarding_ them? What kind of supplies? — but that thought was forgotten when she stepped into the hospital room. She was immediately hit by the familiar scents of her family, and she went still as she took in the sight of them all scattered around the large room. They had all been given what smelled like hot tea mixed with blood (Drake’s in a child’s sippy cup), all of them huddled under thick, gray blankets. Sophia was sitting in one of the room's many chairs, sipping away at her cup, her arm now in a proper sling and an actual ice pack on her injured shoulder. (Before she had to use her scarf as a sling, and the ice pack had been snow wrapped in cloth.) Elpis and Drake were on a chair next to Sophia’s next to the hospital bed in the center of the room. Both were huddling together under blankets draped over their heads, their eyes wide as they stared up the television in the corner of the room playing cartoons on mute. Benny was on the bed itself, wearing a hospital gown, a doctor in a white coat standing over him, her stethoscope to his chest. Benny was talking to her, rambling really, his eyes up toward the ceiling as he spoke. “You don’t want one landing on your chest, let me tell you,” he was saying before he let out a nervous laugh, “ _Hellhounds:_ They'll hit you like a freight train and—”

His nostrils flared then. He dropped his head in a flash, looking right at Andrea with wide eyes. He looked like he had seen one of those hellhounds, and she was actually surprised when he whispered, “ _Andrea_."

Andrea’s heart sped up, her hands clenching at her side. She hadn’t realized how apprehensive she had been about seeing her nest again, not after how she had left them. But as Benny’s face crumpled up, and the others whipped their heads around to look at her with looks of surprise and relief, Andrea relaxed. Her family was _okay,_ she thought. They didn't seem angry with her either. It was almost enough for Andrea herself to thank to the Mother.

She greeted her nest instead, starting with Elpis and Drake. Elpis, who always struggled to put on a brave face (and had since her mother died), sniffled and blinked back her tears, dipping her head when Andrea tugged at her braid playfully. Drake wiggled his way toward her and grasped her leg, Andrea brushing back his wild mane and humming affectionately at him. Next was Sophia, who had stood up to greet her, and they pressed foreheads together in their usual way. Then Andrea turned to Benny, who was already reaching a hand out for her; she met him halfway, grasping his hand and letting him draw her in to press their foreheads together too. “Thank the Mother,” he mumbled when they connected, tears pricking his eyes before he shut them tight. “You’re okay, you’re _okay_.”

“I am,” Andrea reassured, wishing she could kiss him. If there hadn’t been the other vampirs in the room she might have, but she had always been careful about how much she affection she showed her nest around strangers. She had learned that the hard way on the island, and she refused to make that same mistake again. So she settled instead for squeezing his hand , murmuring again, "I'm okay."

Benny pulled back from her after a moment, his eyes roving her face and body, clearly looking for injuries. “You _are_ okay,” he repeated with disbelief, before his brow furrowed in confusion. “Does that mean…? Is he…?”

Andrea knew what Benny was asking. It was on the tip of her tongue to say it too — to happily declare that the monster was dead and they were  _safe_  — when she found herself freezing up. A cold chill gripped her, the words catching in her throat.  _Wrong_ , her instincts said,  _wrong, wrong, wrong._  

Not for the first time, she found herself in doubt. But it seemed that saying the words out loud made that doubt grow out of control, her thoughts frenzied. Did she _really_  know if he was dead? She might have smelled his black blood (a scent so foul that it had left her nauseated), and she might have seen the hole in his throat, but what if it was a trick? Someone she had watched tear apart half a vampir nest couldn't easily be felled by a measly stake; something as powerful as whatever the monster was could only be stopped by nothing short of a force of god. And Andrea knew that if the Mother hadn't intervened the entire time they had been on the island, she hadn't been the one to step in and kill him. Maybe the human god had... Or again, maybe it was just a trick. And if how could she ever think they were safe or would _ever_ be safe—

It was _not_ a pleasant feeling, that reaction. In fact, it left Andrea feeling ill, and it took a lot longer than she would have liked to reel it in. Long enough for Benny to whisper her name again, which helped snapped her back into focus and force herself to say the words.

“He’s dead.”

For the moment, her nest had no real reaction. (The other vampirs did, Andrea seeing them exchange thoughtful glances with each other out of the corner of her eye.) Benny blinked several times, obviously stunned. Sophia sat back in her chair, eyes wide in disbelief for she then she looked away, down at the mug in her hands. It was only Elpis who said something, looking up at them with eyes far too haunted for someone her age. “The monster is dead?” she repeated quietly.

That made Benny let out a rush of air; plaster a smile on his face. But it wasn't his usual smile he gave her when he tried to reassure her. This one was genuine and relieved, his body trembling with it. “Yes,” he croaked out, tears in his eyes again as he let go of Andrea’s hand to reach for Elpis’s. “Yes he is, darlin’. Looks like he won’t be hurtin’ us anymore.”

“Wishes really do come true,” Sophia added in an aside, but didn’t look up from her cup. Elpis clung to Benny’s hand, a whirlwind of emotions in her eyes that seemed to be a mixture of overwhelmed and confused. Andrea wouldn’t have known where to begin in trying to sort them out, and she couldn’t either. Benny was better at that anyway, as much as that thought always made Andrea feel guilty.

No, Andrea had to turn her attention to other things, mainly her nest’s care, and to finding out everything they needed. Leaving them to process the news, she turned back to the other vampirs, who were all politely looking elsewhere. She could sense their worry — who even knew what they were thinking about the nest of half-starved, mostly unrelated vampirs — and Andrea had to fight down another urge to chase them away. They weren't  _weak_ , she found herself thinking. She would prove it to them if she had to.

It was a dark feeling, and one Andrea pushed back too. She forced herself to look at the doctor, who strongly resembled Lenore — no surprise since they were related. Her badge read _Dr. Aurora Lucent_ and gleamed in what lights were in the room. “How is my nest?” Andrea asked her, lifting her head up and standing tall, projecting strength. She was a matriarch and she wanted the doctor to know it. “Any major concerns?”

It was brash of her to talk to someone outside her nest, but neither Lenore, standing in the doorway, or the doctor reacted to it. “The biggest concern is the obvious malnutrition issues,” the doctor said without any hint of unprofessionalism, though Andrea twitched at the reminder of how bone-thin they were, _especially_ compared to the doctor and the other vampirs. “For that, I want to draw blood from all of you for testing, as well as schedule X-rays and MRIs to see if its caused any issues with your bone structure or internal organs. But other than that, all immediate injuries have been tended to, except Benny’s ribs. I’ll need to take an X-ray for that too. I will also need to look at your injuries, Matriarch.”

Andrea twitched, even as her side flared up as if responding to being mentioned. She didn’t think it was obvious she was injured, so Benny must have mentioned it. “I’m fine,” she said automatically, which made Benny hiss her name at her. She ignored him, nodding her head over her shoulder toward her nest. “Do what you need to do for them.”

Benny hissed at her again, while the doctor nodded and excused herself, saying she needed to go schedule their tests. As she left, Lenore stepped into the room, her lips spreading into a smile. Her hands clasped in front of her, a gesture that seemed to indicate she was trying to make herself seem as non-threatening as possible. It did not help Andrea's unease any. “While my sister sees to you, I want to encourage you to rest. Recuperate," Lenore said warmly, looking between them. "My nest and I — we will look out for you. I don’t want you to have any worries or concerns; any needs you might have, we’ll be happy to take care of them for you.”

Andrea frowned at that offer. What was she _saying?_ she wondered, confused. It was not like another vampir to offer to assume the role of matriarch for a whole other nest (unless, as in her own case, the situation demanded it), and that fact that put Andrea on edge. What was this other matriarch doing? Was she suggesting Andrea couldn't handle her nest's needs...?

Lenore seemed to sense her thoughts because blue eyes shifted to her then. “I know it’s unusual for nests to do this for each other, but I must admit: My nest always been a little unusual,” she said, and then grinned. “We don't have to be ruled by our instincts, do we? I don't think so.”

Andrea froze, despite herself.

On its surface, that seemed to be an innocent comment, even a joke. But when Andrea trusted her instincts above almost everything else, it became a pointed comment, a jab even. Like Lenore was saying there was something wrong with that, with _her_ , for being ruled by them. And that made a dark thought thought pass through Andrea’s mind, one that made her hands clench at her sides.

_She thinks you’re a weak matriarch. She’s trying to take over your nest._

Any other time, that might have had been a foolish thought. And it wasn't like that couldn't happen; Andrea herself had overthrown someone herself to gain her position. But she wasn't  _weak_ like he had been. She had worked hard to never show any weakness if she could help it. She had been as strong as she could be, kept her nest as healthy and happy as much as she was able to. To imply she was weak _now_ , when she had given everything to protect her nest...

Then, doubt hit Andrea. Wasn't she weak? she wondered. Lenore was three times her size while Andrea was skin and bones. Andrea’s instincts were off too, confusing her and making her question herself — even now, she was still struggling with the _wrong, wrong, wrong_ feeling. She was still struggling to accept the monster’s death, she still didn’t know what safe and _hope_ meant—

No. _No_. She was the matriarch; she could protect her nest. That's what matriarchs _did_. Andrea sucked in a breath, forcing herself to remain calm. To radiate strength and power so the other vampirs knew it. “That is kind of you,” she managed to say _without_ baring her teeth. “But there is no need for that. I will look after them.”

Lenore’s smile weakened slightly in response. Andrea took vicious pleasure in it, before she found herself frowning again when Lenore folded her arms over her chest and then took a step closer to her. Her voice dropped low so only Andrea could really hear it, the warmth earlier having vanished. “I know you can look after them,” she said, not unkindly, but also very even. Her blue eyes studied her, and Andrea had no idea what she was seeing. “ I can see how much you’ve looked out for them. I've heard about it too. No cost or pain was too great: Like how every matriarch is taught, right?”

Andrea almost nodded, but stopped herself before she did. (What was wrong with her? She wasn’t meant to _agree_ with her.) But then Lenore said words that made Andrea stiffen again, unable to stop herself from sucking in a shocked breath as her eye widened. “But you should do what’s best for your nest, and take care of yourself now.”

 _Wrong!_ was Andrea's immediate thought — only the nest mattered, not _her —_ but then Benny wrapped his hand around hers. She looked over at him in surprise, and then took in his soft, sad expression, full of concern and worry. “She’s right, Andrea,” he said quietly and Andrea’s heart stopped in her chest. “It’s okay to take care of yourself too. _Please_.”

It might as well have been a slap in the face; Andrea almost staggered from the invisible blow. The words spun around in her head, her instincts yelling _wrong, wrong, wrong!_ for a whole new reason. It had been a thought in the back of her mind since she had left the island — was she what was best for the nest? — but hearing it from Benny practically confirmed it.

And that _hurt_.

It also made a chilling thought enter her brain then, one that scared her almost as much as the monster did.

_Maybe your nest wants a new matriarch too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the referenced events in this chapter are also from the vignette, [The Woman Who Would be Queen.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4152588/chapters/9991364)


	6. An Old Voice in My Head, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: PTSD, emotional/psychological abuse.
> 
> The next two chapters take place after Chapter 4.

* * *

**Before**

* * *

The angel didn’t remember much about the day he had been released onto the island.

Most of it was merely flashes: The wire from the snare pole the daemons always used on him wrapping around his neck; his bare feet and wings dragging against concrete as they pulled him from his cage. He had been shoved into dark crate, the lid slammed shut behind him; from there, he was jostled side-to-side in the crate until it suddenly lurched to a halt. Then there had been a light so bright it had seared into the angel’s eyes like fire, blinding him as he felt himself fall.

There had been nothing after that. Nothing but the things the angel had become intimately familiar with.

Darkness. Cold. The hole inside him.

But then.

 _But then_.

He felt.

_A breeze fluttering through the feathers of his wings._

_Biting cold against his palms, something wet against his fingertips._

_Shapes and colors — greens and browns and blues — swirling together in his vision._

_The heavy smell of dirt and pine._

_The buzz of a bee; the thrill song of a bird._

_His heartbeat in his chest._

Sights. Sounds. Scents. Sensations.

Everything slowly came into focus: He was lying on the ground, wind flirting with the feathers of his wings, his hands curled up in leaves and melting snow. A bee was crawling along his fingertips, and when it flitted off, his eye tracked it up toward pine trees. Sunlight trickled through the leaves, and the angel started to faintly feel its warmth spread along his cold, cold skin.

 _Life_ , he thought. He was surrounded by _life._

The angel had forgotten life.

He had forgotten everything in the time he had spent in his concrete tomb, alone in the dark and silence. The passing of time was meaningless; there became no difference between being awake and being asleep. All of his senses had eroded away, until there had been nothing left but one thing: _Hunger._ It had been like a hole inside him, consuming him from the inside out until all he knew was _its_ truth.

Until that very moment.

It called to him, that life, asking him to wake up and experience it fully. Except he couldn’t; after so long in the dark, his mind and body had unraveled from each other and drifted apart. His body was nothing more than an empty vessel; his mind became lost in the world between unconsciousness and consciousness. To wake up, he would need to put himself back together, but the angel wasn’t how to do that. It was like he was in the egg again: knowing something was just past the shell, but not yet having the awareness of his limbs to reach for it.

He also wasn’t sure if he wanted to reach for it either.

There had been a reason his mind and body had disconnected: He had separated them himself. It had to be done — the pain and torture and silence and darkness had become too much, and it was his only means of escape left. He had done it not long after he had realized his fate: That he would not be leaving his tomb; that he would starve to death; that he would never fly again; that he would never see his family ever again. (That he would never know what it would be like to fall in love, or have someone he could call his own.) He had done it because he had come face-to-face with an ancient predator, and learned what the Leviathan had wanted from him.

 _I want you to learn something, angel_ , the monster had said. _I want you to learn that we are all just_ meat _._

It was a lesson the angel did not want to learn, so he had closed himself off and drifted away.

As much as the world called to him now, he knew that meant he would have to face his fate again. And there was such a peace in lying there in the forest, caught in the state between dreams and being awake, between not living and not dying. It was like being in the egg again, curious about the world outside he knew existed, but also content to stay safe and warm inside his shell.

But even he knew that living — much like birth — was not a fate he could escape. He could not sleep forever; he _had_ to wake up. How he chose to live was up to him, but either way, he had to _live_.

So the angel broke through his shell, sucking in his first breath, and the island welcomed him with open arms.

* * *

**Present**

* * *

“Castiel.”

The angel tensed under his blanket, fingers digging into his knees tightly. He had sensed the other angel approaching before she had even entered the room, but part of him had hoped she wouldn’t look in the spot where he was. He had hoped she would simply think he was elsewhere, up in the room where they had their meditation sessions perhaps, and she would leave to search for him there.

No such luck. She found him a moment later.

“Castiel.” Her heels clicked on the tiled floor before she came to a stop. She let out a sigh. “Castiel, we have spoken about this. Do you remember what I told you?”

 _The Leviathan is dead; it cannot harm you anymore,_ the angel repeated automatically as he looked down at the tiled floor. It was only a small comfort — that did absolutely nothing for the gaping wound that was his heart — but it was something he was supposed to remind himself of. That way he didn’t do things like give into his instincts, which often told him that he could not sleep in a bed because it was too out in the open. Instincts that told him instead to sleep in a more enclosed space, like the bathroom shower.

But here he was, sitting on the floor of the shower, wings curled around his shoulders and blanket draped over him. A wave of shame hit him, and he nodded jerkily in reply, and then slipped enough of the blanket off so he could dip his uninjured wing low in an apology. It was the only way he could offer it to her, words still clogged up in his throat, unable to get out. His voice had shriveled up and died as swiftly as grasses after the first frost; tried as he might, the angel could _not_ speak.

“Then you have no reason to keep doing this, Castiel, and you must stop,” the other angel said. He flinched, and glanced up at her guiltily, meeting cool blue eyes. She was nearly as tall as him, but every inch of her presence commanded authority and respect. Her gray suit was impeccable, fitted perfectly with no wrinkle in sight; her auburn feathery hair was pinned neatly to her neck. Her wings were groomed and gleaming, no fault to be found. Next to her, the angel felt small, uncouth, and was highly aware of his gray wings and hair that stuck up everywhere.

But she _was_ an Elder. Elder Naomi of the Agnes Host, the only part of the hierarchy his host had kept with them when they left Jannah. An elder was just under an arch in terms of rank — some said they even had more power, as they were the ones who advised the archs on how to rule. They also saw to the host’s overall health and strength, keeping the bloodlines strong and recording their history. They demanded the utmost respect and obedience, and for a lower-ranked angel, it was considered a great honor to be in their presence.

Next to her, the angel might as well have been an untrained fledgling. He felt like one too, as he ducked his head again and nodded. _I need to stop,_ he told himself.

He could feel Naomi’s eyes on him for a long moment, before her wings rustled once. “It is something we will work on. For now, it is time to start the day, Castiel. You will have your daily exam, get dressed, and have breakfast with your family before meditation. Come.”

She left the bathroom, heels clicking on the tiled floor once again. Obediently, the angel moved to follow her, letting his blanket drop as he pushed to his feet. His ribs ached as he did, and his legs were shaky — his body was still weak, weak in a way that instinct told him to shelter in place since food was no longer a concern. But he couldn’t — it was time for him to get up — so he stepped out of the shower and made his way toward the bathroom door.

Except, when he reached it, he hesitated. His eyes glanced back toward the shower, wing twitching with sudden nerves.

The shower wasn’t a cave on the island. It wasn’t the space under the bed, or the closet or the tree outside the house with exposed roots that formed a hole large enough for him to curl up in. (That was the angel’s favorite spot... But one he didn't get to go anymore as Naomi had told him not to.) The bathroom’s ceilings were too tall, and the shower door was hardly a wall, but it was close enough. And when he curled up under his soft, gray blanket — far more comfortable for a bed than leaves and bough had ever been — with his back to the shower wall that looked and felt like a natural rock face, he felt…

Okay. Better. Less exposed. He could at least doze without instinctively worrying about predators finding him, and his nightmares weren’t as violent. If he found himself there during the day, he could take a moment to stop fighting his instincts and simply relax. He would have preferred the tree outside, but he made do.

He _really_ hated having to leave it though, especially in the mornings.

His exams put him edge, he _disliked_ meditation, but those were nothing compared to what he dreaded most of all.

Facing his family.

Facing the horror in their eyes when they looked at him. Seeing how they nervously moved around him, as if he were sick or diseased. Catching them staring at his scars and his broken wings. _Wounded, weak, wrong,_ they said in their eyes and body language, and it always made the angel’s skin crawl with unease. _Not an angel, not a warrior, just an—_

“Castiel,” Naomi called from within the bedroom, and the angel flinched. His wing was shaking again, and he had to blink past the tears brimming in his eyes. He could feel the hole inside of him calling out to him, its dark abyss promising a relief from all his pain and worry. All he had to do was give in.

It was some effort, but he managed to turn away from it, and forced himself to step into the bedroom.

The bedroom was nothing like his hospital room had been, and if he had to choose, he preferred this place better. It was more natural looking, with light-colored wood planks that covered the entire room from floor to ceiling, large logs forming the beams in the ceiling. There was a fireplace that was designed similarly to the rock face in the shower, and several large windows with a view of the forest that bordered the house. Gray rugs lined the floor, chairs were placed in corners of the room, and against the back wall near the door, was the bed where Naomi and Flagstaff were waiting for him.

They were the only ones in the room, but the angel double-checked, just to be sure. From outside the room, he could smell food cooking, and hear his family talking to each other. That made the angel relax, and he stepped further into the bedroom. It was much easier to prepare himself for facing them when they weren’t around for his exams. He had learned that the hard way in the hospital, when they _had_ been there. His brethren’s reactions when they had seen his scars and his broken wings had been…

Well. The angel hadn’t liked their reactions.

Flagstaff and Naomi, at least, kept their thoughts on the matter to themselves. Not that the angel took much comfort in that, but that was for a whole other reason. He had to fight his nerves again as he pulled off his shirt and then stepped up to Flagstaff so she could begin her exam.

Flagstaff, as she liked to be called since her name was eighteen syllables long, immediately got to work, pulling equipment out of her medical bag as she went along. She started by weighing him, and then moved on to check his vitals, and confirm that vampir bite on his shoulder was healing. Once finished with that, she checked his healing ribs, before making him spread out his uninjured wing, and then looked over his injured one. As she went along, she peppered him with questions, none of which he could answer.

“How are you feeling, Castiel? Are your ribs bothering you? Any issues with your pain medication?”

Naomi was the one who answered for him, and every time she spoke, he tensed. It was due to the fact that she was standing just out of the angel’s perpendicular vision, and he had to keep himself from looking at her. A predator would approach him from the angle, and he had to keep reassuring himself it was only her.

The only time he did look at her was when Flagstaff asked how he was sleeping. “He has been sleeping well,” Naomi replied, and the angel frowned. But he hadn’t been…?

He couldn’t correct her if he tried, and Flagstaff had moved onto her next set of questions. “How about food?” she asked as she looked him over. “Any upset stomachs? Cramping?”

“No issues there. He has been eating well,” Naomi answered. “Is he ready to move to a more normal diet?”

Flagstaff let out a tiny huff, lips quirking toward a smile as she wrote something on the tablet she had with her. “Gabriel asked the very same thing this morning. But yes, I believe you are, Castiel.” She waved the tablet pen at him, almost teasingly. “I would stick to nutrient-dense foods, and keep your portions to a normal size... Even though I’m sure Gabriel will try to load your plate to the brim with the feast he’s cooking out there for you.”

The angel nodded, though from the smells coming from the kitchen, he wondered if he would be able to follow orders. Most of his meals to that point had been soft and bland: Broths at first, thin porridges, peanut butter pastes, soft pieces of bread. Over the last week, his meals had become denser — brown rice mixed with egg and vegetables, sweet potatoes mixed with lentils, yogurt with dried fruit stirred in. Flagstaff had paired his meals with nutrient injections, and she had also started making him take a multivitamin, which smelled like strange grass.

While all the food he had eaten to that point had been delicious and _warm_ (there was nothing like warm food) and the angel had loved every bite of it, it hadn’t smelled like what Gabriel was making. The smells were growing in intensity, making the angel’s stomach grumble hungrily, wanting to know what it was and if he could eat it. It seemed he would be able to too, as Flagstaff had said Gabriel was cooking for _him_ …

Which was strange, the angel realized. Why was Gabriel cooking for him?

“Is he almost ready for his second surgery?” Naomi asked then, which pulled the angel from his thoughts.

It made him glance over at his injured wing, now wrapped tightly up in fresh bandages. He had already had one surgery on it as it was — which was not long after he arrived at the hospital — to remove the shattered fragments of bones and set pins to keep his wing in place. That had been all Flagstaff had been willing to do until he could ‘handle the stress of a second surgery,’ which would replace the missing bones with a light-weight material. After that, once it was healed, he would finally have his wing back.

It was something he was looking forward to, and it seemed it would be happening soon, as Flagstaff

“Yes, I believe so. I would prefer to do it before your winter molt; one stressor at a time, after all,” she said as she looked at him, the angel frowning at the reminder. (Replacing the majority of his feathers in a two-week time period was stressful — and frustrating, when he didn’t have anyone around to help groom the parts of his wings he couldn’t reach.) Flagstaff sighed then, glancing out toward the windows and the forest that lay past it. “I would prefer to do it in our facilities too. But if that isn’t an option, I can put together a request for the hospital for the equipment and supplies we need.”

“Do it,” Naomi said, and Flagstaff murmured an acknowledgement. As she made a note of it on her tablet, Naomi nodded toward him. “Anything else, _Rit Zien_?”

The hope and joy the angel had been feeling quickly dissipated, and he grew tense as he looked up at Flagstaff. This was worse part of the exam: Her verdict. So much rode on her answer...

“Nothing that I can think of, except the usual things,” Flagstaff replied, her black wings rustling as she looked over at Naomi. She wasn’t just referencing that he was underweight and injured, but that he was mute as well, and none of them knew why. She looked down at him, and some of the tension in his muscles faded when she said, “You’re growing healthier, Castiel. You’re putting on weight. If you continue to rest, eat, keep your stress levels down… you’ll be better in no time, I’m sure of it.”

Relief washed over him. _I’ll be better,_ he repeated to himself, and then looked over at Naomi. The elder met his gaze, and then lifted her eyebrows at him, a silent _see?_

The angel glanced away, wing shifting with his nerves. That was what he wanted: To _be_ better. If he was better, his family wouldn’t look at him like he was broken anymore. If he became better, perhaps he would be able to sleep, or not feel so exposed all the time, or not feel the shame over his body. If he was better, he wouldn’t fear the hole inside of him, or be tempted by its promises.

And perhaps he would no longer feel such _awful_ pain from the place where his heart used to be… If he got better.

With the exam over, Naomi thanked Flagstaff by her title and full name — all eighteen syllables of it — and the angel dipped his head in gratitude as well. Then it was time for him to get dressed, the angel moving to do so as Flagstaff packed up her gear and left the room. Naomi had already laid out clothes for him, all of which were human clothes, refashioned to fit him. There was a tunic with a slit cut down the back for his wings, that he tied at the neck and lower back; some simple linen pants; socks, shoes. And despite them being human clothes (which he had to wear as the clothing his family had brought for him, which was designed for angels, hadn’t fit), the angel really liked them. They kept him warm, and they covered up his body so no one had to look at his scars. They were soft too. He liked soft things.

He had _missed_ clothing too. Most of his clothes on the island had deteriorated to the point where only his trousers and coat and a tie-turned-belt had been left. They had only lasted as long as they did, because he had gone to great lengths to preserve them and only wore them when needed. That meant when it was spring, he had to hide his clothes in a place where they wouldn’t be exposed to the elements, and left them there until winter came. It hadn’t always warm enough to walk around naked — especially when it rained during the summer — but those were one of the sacrifices he had to make if he wanted to have clothes during the winter.

Except he didn’t have to make a choice like that anymore, and the angel was more than happy about that. The only thing that would have made it better was if he had his trench coat back — even though he couldn’t remember why he had liked it so much beyond it serving as a blanket and it keeping him dry when it rained — and if he didn’t have to _wear_ shoes. Socks were okay, he liked having warm toes, but shoes? They were confining and made too much noise when he walked; he had learned to move silently on the island to avoid attracting predators, and it irked him not to be able to do that still.

But, Naomi expected him to wear them, and so the angel obediently put them on. Everyone else wore shoes, he told himself. He had to too.

When he finished dressing, Naomi looked him over, her arms folded behind her back. He couldn’t read her expression, and grew a little self-conscious, knowing he looked slightly ridiculous standing around in human clothes. But whatever her thoughts were, she seemed to find him acceptable as she nodded once, and then lifted blue eyes to meet his.

The angel stiffened instinctively, recognizing the look. He was immediately at full attention, eyes never leaving hers.

“Remember, Castiel,” Naomi said slowly. “Remember what you were taught. Now, breathe in, and repeat after me.”

He did as told, sucking in air. And, as she spoke, he repeated her words inside his head. “You are above your body. You are above your mind. You are above pain. You are above fear. You are above _all_ feelings.”

The words were familiar. Comforting too. He had learned them long, long ago as a child, when he had first started the intense training that shaped all angels into the warriors the rest of the world envied and feared. They had been words he had repeated to himself countless times on the island to find the strength he needed when pain and hunger threatened to overwhelm him. They had helped him survive, and they were helping him now. He could feel himself rising above his fear, the pain in his heart dimming, the hole inside of him. _I am above all feelings,_ he repeated again. _I am above_ all _feelings..._

“Good,” Naomi murmured as he slowly exhaled. “Now. Come.”

She turned on her heel, heading for the bedroom door. He followed after her obediently.

The light-colored wood paneling extended past his room and into the rest of the house, complete with log-like beams in the ceiling. They entered the living room first, dotted with furniture that circled another fireplace styled like the one in his bedroom, large windows revealing the city and ocean off in the distance.

As they moved past the windows, the angel saw Ion and Esper outside, walking the deck that led toward the side of the house. They were Naomi’s personal bodyguards, but they had since joined Gabriel and Rachel’s bodyguards to oversee the entire family’s security. They worked alongside the U.S. Marshals who had been assigned to protect them while they waited for the threat of the monster’s remaining forces to be eliminated. The house they were staying at was a good place to hide a bunch of angels too: It was off the main road, gated, and high enough up a hill that the general public wouldn’t easily spot them. The angel knew that was a concern too — that the public and press would find out they were there. He had overhead Naomi speaking to the others about it on what they should say if they were confronted by a journalist or spotted by someone other than an officer.

It meant the angel himself wasn’t allowed out in the front of the house, because out of all them, he couldn’t be spotted. But that was okay: He preferred the back of the house where the forest was, and which the family room windows looked out onto. Like the living room, the family room was filled with plush couches and sofas, along with a television up on the wall. It opened up to the kitchen and dining room, which had a large table set up in the middle, a trio of lights shaped like lanterns hanging over it. It came with no chairs, only benches — perfect for people who didn’t need backs to their chairs because of their wings. Across from it was an island with stools, and then the kitchen, where most of his family was.

Balthazar was sitting at the table, sipping away at a mug of coffee with both hands; Rachel and an angel named Hannah were carrying food to the table; Gabriel and Anna cooking; Flagstaff making herself tea. None of them noticed their arrival, and the angel took a moment just to look over each of them in turn. His eyes traveled from Anna’s fiery red hair and wings — an unusual color for an angel — to Gabriel’s massive wings, which were at odds with his much shorter height. He looked at Rachel, out the suits she usually favored, instead in a blue shirt with frills and leggings designed to resemble jeans. Finally, he looked over at Balthazar, who hadn’t changed from his signature look: A gray v-shirt with his favorite black coat, the feathers on his wings’ shoulders sticking up much like the hair on his forehead did.

As nervous as his family made him, the angel couldn’t help but just _look_ at his family, soaking them in. They weren’t all here — Gabriel had only been able to take so many people with him, and Naomi and Flagstaff had taken precedence over Hester, Inias and Uriel. But the angel himself didn’t mind, because once he had firmly believed he would never see _any_ of his family ever again. Every glimpse of them was something the angel was incredibly grateful for.

“Heeeey, look who it is! Cassieeeeee!”

The angel jerked out of his thoughts, and then looked toward a grinning Gabriel. Everyone else turned in his direction, too, and the angel tensed worriedly. But Rachel, Anna and even Hannah (who the angel himself didn’t really know; she had only recently joined the host) smiled at him, and called out a chorus of, “Good morning, Castiel!” and “How are you feeling?”

They didn’t look at him like he was sick or broken, and the angel’s heart swelled with sudden hope. Maybe he _was_ getting better, like Naomi said he would...

Except, there was Balthazar. Balthazar who turned to look at him too, but didn’t smile or call out. Balthazar, who simply gazed at him, and then looked away.

The joy the angel had been feeling started to fade. _You are above feelings,_ he had to tell himself as his wing started to tremble.

“So, Cassie, I heard you can eat real food now!” Gabriel called out to him then, making the angel look back. Gabriel waved him over with his great brown wing, and after a glance at Naomi for confirmation, the angel approached slowly. Gabriel was sprinkling white sugar on some sort of bread thing, but he used his other wing to gesture at the food that was spread out on the island countertop. The angel’s eyes grew wide as he took it all in. “I decided we should celebrate! Have all the fixins,’ as the humans say. We got a mix of eggs, _Kalagyosh,_ potatoes, oatmeal, two kinds of _khachapuri,_ three kinds of pig, and best of all…”

Gabriel lifted the bread stuff, his wings swayed playfully as he cooed, “My _award-winning_ French toast.”

What made a French toast award-winning, the angel didn’t know.

But he did want to eat it.

“Gabriel, I _said_ Castiel needed nutritious food, not the monstrosity that is eighty percent sugar,” Flagstaff interjected from where she was at the table pouring herself tea.

“And you can’t call that award-winning just because you won the dessert round in Chopped’s amatuer chef competition,” Anna chimed in from where she was at the stove. She turned to look at him, on hand falling at her hip while she waved a spoon at him. “I know you like to pretend otherwise, but the vampir hadn’t forgotten an ingredient in the main course, you would have lost, Gabriel.”

“ _Chopped Interspecies Amatuer Chef_ edition, thank you very much,” Gabriel shot back, while Anna rolled her eyes. “And do you know how many calls I’ve received about my recipe—”

“Any fledgling can make a French toast, Gabriel, don’t kid yourself.”

“Out of the basket ingredients I got? _Hardly_.”

The angel had _no idea_ what they were talking about, and his attention was soon drawn away, down to all the food that had been cooked. There was a lot of it, more than even fourteen angels and the several U.S. Marshals could probably eat in one sitting. But this was only breakfast; they would have something completely different for dinner, a fact the angel could barely wrap his head around.

How could there be _so much_ _food?_ he wondered, and not for the first time. Sometimes it didn’t seem _real_ that that much food could even exist in the entire world. And it was just _there,_ within reach — he didn’t have to spend hours searching for it or hunting it; didn’t have to defend it from others, or split it half and bury it so he would have something for later. How could it be that _easy?_

“Looks tasty, huh?”

He jumped slightly, surprised, turning to look at Rachel. She quickly smiled at him, wing dipping apologetically. “Sorry, Castiel. You can sit you know, and start eating?”

She pointed toward the bench, and the angel looked at the spot. It was a place he would have chosen for himself, as it put him at the edge of the table, with no wall at his back. (He liked to sit with his back to something — rocks, tree trunks, muddy banks — so it wasn’t exposed.) Also, it was the spot right next to Balthazar, whose wings tensed up when he noticed that as well.

He shot a glare at Rachel, who didn’t seem to notice it. Her eyes were still on the angel himself, and her smile grew. “I know there’s a lot for you to choose from, Castiel… But I made your favorite breakfast too, if you’d like to eat that.”

The angel perked up at that. _His favorite breakfast?_ He immediately thought of the berries on the island — the thimbleberries, nagoonberries, blueberries, gooseberries available throughout the year— or fresh-caught salmon from the river. But he realized quickly that that wasn’t what Rachel meant. She was talking his favorite breakfast from _before_ the island.

The angel had no idea what that _was_.

Maybe the question was on his face, as Rachel’s smile faltered a bit. But then it was back, and she nodded once. “Well, come on then. You’re in for a treat.”

After a quick confirming nod with Naomi, the angel followed after Rachel, sitting down in the spot she indicated, and looking up at her expectantly. She smiled again, and her dark blond wings fluttered in a way that said she was nervous — something she _rarely_ was, he remembered that clearly. But why was she nervous? he wondered.

She picked up a plate that was already on the table, and set it down in front of him. The plate itself had white bees embossed on the outer rim, and on its center were square bars of fruits and oats, drizzled with honey and a little sugar. The angel frowned at it curiously, unsure what it was.

“They’re baked honey-berry oatmeal bars,” Rachel said, and then her smile grew warm. “Freshly made, just like we used to love them as kids.”

The angel frowned thoughtfully. That was _right:_ Rachel and him had grown up not too far from each other. Their villages had just been a quick fifteen minute flight from one cliffside to the next, and they would have shared food with each other. He and Rachel had played together as children, but it wasn’t until they sent off to training that they had become friends. And it was a friendship that had lasted since then: Next to Balthazar, she was one of his oldest and most-trusted friends.

Well, he hoped Balthazar was still his friend. Currently, Balthazar was still not looking at him, instead pouring something out of a flask into his coffee. It made Rachel shoot a glare at him, which he didn't seem to notice.

However, the angel himself wasn’t as bothered this time around: The oatmeal bars were drawing all of his attention away. They were still a mystery to him, not jogging any memories for him about why they were his favorite breakfast item. The only thing left to do was try them, and the angel picked one up, and then lifted it to his lips.

He bit into it slowly, and the richness of flavors and textures washed over his tongue like a wave: the sweetness of the honey, the tartness of the berries, the nutty crunch of pecans, the warm, gooeyness of the oatmeal mixed with cinnamon. It was the most combination of flavors in one bite than he had in a _long time_ , and it was almost overwhelming trying to take it all in at once. It was nothing like the berries or salmon or anything else he had eaten — it was the best thing he had ever _tasted._

And then he _remembered_ it: Remembered when he was a child, and how he would bring berries, wild oats and nuts he had collected to the kitchens. He remembered baking their mixtures in rock ovens and, once it was cool, topping it off with honey fresh off the comb. He and his siblings would eat the whole batch in one go, accidentally smearing their wings with oatmeal and honey in the process. It was something that had made their mother roll her eyes before she ordered them off to go take a bath. (He remember his _mother,_ then.When was the last time he had thought of his mother?)

It wasn’t his only memory tied to the food, however. He had several versions of it, he remembered that too. Each version was made from the honey his bees created, each hive giving its only unique flavor to the bar. And he had learned to make a dried recipe of the oatmeal bar, one that he could bring with him when he didn’t have time for longer breakfast. All he had to do was unwrap it and he would chew on it while he got started reading emails or going over paperwork. And then on good days, he would even get his favorite lunch too, peanut butter and jelly...

All that was in a couple bites of foods, and the angel swallowed it happily as his heart swelled with pure joy then. This was his favorite breakfast, and he _remembered_ it. He remembered it!

He looked up at Rachel again, and some of his excitement must have shown on his face, as she grinned. “I’m glad you like it,” she said, wings rustling in her pleasure. “I thought it would be nice for you to have a little taste of home since we can’t go home yet. You deserve that, Castiel.”

The angel grew confused, as this food tasted _nothing_ like home. Nothing like this was found on the island, and certainly not in his secluded thicket near the mountain and river. Why would she say that…?

Except, he realized a moment later, that was not the place Rachel was talking about. She meant _home_ : Their home in California, in the long, stretch of valley bordered by mountains. Where his garden was. Where his bees were. Where his _car_ was. (He had a _car_!) Where white towers were covered in _altin_ berries, and on clear days they could see all the way out to ocean. The home he had helped build, a place where all angels could live and be free.

It was another place he had only just started to re-remember apart from his dreams. And that had been thanks to _Dean_. Dean had wanted to see his home too, which the angel was so excited to show to him too. He wanted to show Dean his garden and bees and car, and oh, now he had to make him baked honey-berry oatmeal bars, because he _had_ to try them too—

— except he would never get to do that.

The food suddenly went bland in his mouth, and it was no longer easy to swallow. Rachel noticed, her brow creasing up quickly. “Castiel?” she asked.

He barely heard her, his eyes falling down to his plate, no longer appetizing. He would never get to do any of that, he thought, because Dean was—

_“Cas.”_

The angel stiffened in surprise. A heartbeat later, he whipped toward the voice, his mind reeling. _Cas,_ his name was _Cas,_ he thought frantically as his eyes sought the voice’s owner, heart starting to pound.

But when he saw what awaited him, his heart went dead in his chest. He felt himself drop his food, and his eyes grow wide.

It was Dean. Dean, leg a mess of bones and red flesh, lying on the floor, clothes torn and battered, _soaking_ in a growing pool of blood. He was pale, green-eyes wide, his hand shaking as he held out it out toward him. Blood dribbled from his lips as he croaked out, “ _Cas_.”

The angel felt a sound building up in his throat, so violent it left him shaking. It was a _wail_  that wanted to make itself known, and in it was only one name. _Dean, Dean, Dean, **Dean.**_

He was off his chair and halfway over to Dean before he realized who else was there with him. Towering above Dean was the _monster,_ and the angel slid to a halt when he saw him, heart leaping in fear. He looked exactly like the angel had last seen him too, standing tall in his vest and slacks, knee-high boots, long wool coat, the tie. His dark, empty eyes instantly locked onto his own, his mouth splitting into a wide grin that was all sharp teeth.

“Do you remember what I said you were meant to learn, angel?” the Leviathan drawled, and the angel went cold. The hole inside him grew wide as if responding to him, and there was no ignoring it now, not when the monster’s eyes reflected its dark depths. The monster’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming as he hissed, “Do you remember what you are?”

 _Meat,_ the angel answered.

 _“Cas,_ ” Dean called again, only to seize up and start coughing blood when the monster’s foot came down on his stomach. The angel’s heart leapt again at that, before it started pounding again. The monster was going to kill Dean, he thought with a stab of panic. Dean was going to die, and there was nothing he could _do—_

 _No,_ the angel realized then. He could do something. Nothing was stopping him this time. No one was holding him back. He could save Dean this time.

The angel felt himself _snap_ , all his fears gone in an instant. There was another sound building in his throat, but it was no longer a wail that wanted out. It was a _snarl,_ and it ripped free, dark and vicious. He could feel every feather he had rise up, blood thundering in his veins; his blade fell to his hand and everything in his vision disappeared except the monster. His muscles coiled up before he launched forward, straight at the Leviathan.

He wasn’t going to lose Dean again, he thought fiercely. _Not again_.

He swung his blade upward at the monster’s neck… Only for it to slice through nothing but air. But it wasn’t because the monster had dodged the swing — it was because he was suddenly _gone_. Dean and the monster simply vanished, and the angel was faced with nothing but the sofas and couches of the living room. There was no blood on the floor; no sign that the monster or Dean had ever been there. It threw the angel off completely, and he looked around frantically in confusion.

 _No, no, no_ , he thought, _Where was Dean, where was Dean—_

He turned to look behind him... Only to stiffen when he saw the rest of his family over at the table, staring at him.

The look in their eyes made the angel grow cold for a whole other reason.

Gabriel was gaping at him. Anna’s eyes were wide with fear. Flagstaff had dropped her tea. Rachel was standing protectively in front of Hannah, both of them staring at him in utter horror.

And Balthazar, with his gritted teeth and tense wings, was looking at him too. Looking at him like he was an _animal—_

“Castiel,” Naomi called, and the angel’s eyes shifted to her. She was the only one who didn’t look upset or horrified; she had her usual neutral expression on her face, her voice cool and calm.

“Castiel,” she said again, as she slowly approached him. “Put the knife down.”

The angel glanced at his trembling hand. Clenched tight in his grip was a table knife, not his blade, as he had originally thought it was. In surprise, he dropped it, his chest heaving and heart starting to pound again. It clattered uselessly on the wooden floor, the sound oddly loud in the silent room.

There was only the sound of his breathing, actually. He kept sucking in shuddering breaths, but it wasn’t enough, it didn’t change what had happened. What he had seen… It hadn’t been _real,_ had it? The monster hadn’t been there. Dean hadn’t been there.

Dean was still _gone_.

“Castiel, do you remember what I said?” Naomi called to him, and the angel repeated it mindlessly, though the words rang hollow.

 _The Leviathan is dead; it can no longer harm you._ Except it didn’t matter if he was dead; the monster had left holes inside of him that he would _never_ heal from. They would always be there, reminding him what he was: An _animal_. (Wounded, weak, _wrong_.) They would always be there, to tell him over and over the simple truth: Dean was _gone,_ and nothing _mattered._

“Castiel, breathe,” Naomi called again, but it was too much.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t rise above his feelings. He couldn’t _breathe_.

The only thing he could do was _run_.

And so he did.


	7. An Old Voice in My Head, Part II

There was only one place the angel wanted to flee to. He didn’t go to his blanket in the shower, he didn’t shove himself into his closet, or crawl under the spot under his bed.

He _needed_ to be outside, amongst the forest again, and there was only one place he could go for that: His favorite tree. Bolting out the back door, he was over the deck and into the trees before the guards outside even noticed. His shoes crunched loudly on the forest floor of pine needles and twigs as he ran to where the old pine was, his heart leaping when he spotted it.

The trees in the forest around it was relatively young, but this pine was much older, centuries at least. It had started to grow partially into a slope of a hill, the angle of which left a large chunk of its roots exposed. The space between the roots was just large enough that the angel could crawl into the hole that had formed underneath, and he would be completely hidden. And that was exactly what he did, jumping atop the roots and then diving right in.

Once inside, surrounded by walls of dirt and the smell of pine, he curled up around his body. His legs went to his chest, his arms wrapped around his legs and his good wing came up to cover him completely. Then he buried his face into his knees, and was finally _safe_ enough that he did not have to instinctively worry about predators or being far too exposed. It was just in time too: The broken wail he had been holding onto was finally ripped out of his throat.

It was an anguished, raw, broken sound like that of a dying animal. Not surprising, when that was what he was.

Each time that _it_ hit him again — that Dean was _gone —_ it was like he had been shot once more. It was an explosion of pain and grief that tore through him and sent him plummeting back to earth, right into the hole inside of him. And each time, its arms spread wide to welcome him, singing to him sweetly; it promised no feelings, no pain. All he had to do was give in. Accept what he was. Nothing would matter… Because nothing _did_ matter, and there was a certain peace in that.

He wanted so badly to do it too, as he had in the hospital. He didn’t want to fight anymore. He didn’t want to be in pain anymore. He didn’t want to feel broken and _wrong;_ see the horror in everyone’s eyes and know how far he had fallen. He didn’t want to worry about the _Rit Zien_ ; didn’t want to have to worry about if he got better or not. He didn’t want the monster to always be there, reminding him _what_ he was. He didn’t want to see Dean dying over and over and over again. He had barely survived _that_ the first time.

The hole inside him beckoned again, and the angel looked toward it, more and more of his will eroding away. What did it matter if he became the animal? he wondered. He was afraid of that, but sometimes it was truly hard to remember why. Especially when he was just _so_ tired...

He took a step toward it, but as he did, a voice called out to him. It was faint but familiar, like a light in the darkness. And when he turned toward it, a warmth wrapped around him, drawing him into a soothing embrace. The angel relaxed into it without even thinking, a new sound building in his throat that was dangerously close to a whimper.

And then it whispered his name.

_Cas._

He could almost feel lips pressing against his forehead, fingers brushing against his cheek. The whimper escaped him when Cas realized who it was, and named him back.

 _Dean_.

Then, he could almost _see_ Dean. He was leaning over him, the sun catching the browns of his hair and the hues of green in his eyes. He was so beautiful, and Cas never wanted to look away from him. He just wanted to stay forever in this one spot, with Dean right there with _him_.

But it wasn’t meant to be.

“You have to live, Cas,” Dean pleaded. “You have to live.”

Another whimper escaped Cas’s throat, tears pricking his eyes. This wasn’t the first time Dean had asked him that, but it didn’t make it any easier to hear. Dean didn’t want him to be an animal, and because of that, Cas had already crawled out of the hole inside him once before. But he didn’t know if he had the strength for that again; he didn’t want to keep doing it over and over again either.

 _I don’t know if I can_ , _Dean,_ he admitted. He would do anything for Dean, but he wasn’t sure if he could do _this_. _I don’t know if I can._

Dean smiled at him at that, reaching up to cradle his cheeks. Cas’s heart ached fiercely at the love in his eyes, and when Dean leaned down and pressed their foreheads together, the angel could feel tears on his cheeks.

“I believe in you,” Dean whispered.

The warmth slipped away, Cas whimpering again and trying to grasp at it and keep it with him. And when it was gone, the angel was left shivering in the cold and the dark, clinging to nothing. All he had were the echo of Dean’s words, and another sob wanting to be wrenched out from his throat. He still needed him though, and he begged for him to come back and reply to the question he still didn’t know the answer to.

 _How, Dean_ , he pleaded. _How do I live?_

_“Castiel!”_

That was Rachel’s voice. The angel lifted his head up in worry. She sounded… scared.

“Castiel!”

She was close by; when the angel leaned up and peered out, he could see her between the tree roots. She was standing a couple dozen yards away, head swiveling from side to side as she looked around the forest. Her wings were fluttering in distress, and it echoed in her voice when she called out again, “Castiel?"

Buried under tree roots, she couldn’t see him, and the angel watched her grit her teeth in frustration. She then looked behind her, and the feathers on her wings rose up in sudden anger. What she was angry about became clear a moment later.

“By Michael’s feather-covered ass, Balthazar,” she said harshly, “Will you help me _look_?”

To the angel’s surprise, Balthazar then strolled into view. He did not look happy, his wings tight against his back, shoulders curled in, fists clenched at his sides. “I am _bloody_ looking,” he grumbled as he walked over to her side. When he was in front of her, he spread his wings slightly, saying with some bite in his tone, “Here I am, looking for someone who might not want to be bloody found by _us_.”

Rachel’s eyes narrowed at that, her own wings spreading out slightly in her anger. “Naomi said he shouldn’t be left alone right now,” she growled, and that made Balthazar sneer.

“Oh, of course. And Naomi knows _best_ , doesn’t she?”

From his spot under the tree roots, the angel’s eyes grew wide. Balthazar had always been brash and prone to acting out against authority, but it was brazen even for him to talk about an elder like that. Rachel didn’t seem surprised, however, though she did grow angrier.

“Oh, and you do?” she shot back. The feathers on her wings rose higher and higher still. “What would _you_ recommend for our brother, Balthazar? I’d love to hear it.”

Balthazar shot her a glare. “I certainly wouldn’t recommend Castiel following Naomi around like an obedient house pet,” he growled.

“No, of course not,” Rachel spit. “You’d recommend something for more crueler. Not speaking to him? Avoiding him? Refusing to look at him? Is that what you want us to do?”

From under the tree roots, the angel tensed. He wasn’t entirely sure what they were arguing about, but the question made him nervous. Was that something Balthazar would say his family should do? It wouldn’t be a surprise if he did — it was to be expected, really — but...

Thankfully Balthazar didn’t confirm that. What he did do was rise to his full height, wings drawing in even tighter. “No,” he grit out.

“Oh, so that’s just what you’re doing then? How is that working out?”

Balthazar shot her another glare, and in response, Rachel bared her teeth at him. From the tree roots, the angel grew nervous again. Were they going to fight?

“Naomi is trying to help, unlike _you_ ,” Rachel said then, and Balthazar sneered again, looking away. That made Rachel’s wings flare out, and her voice grow louder. “She is! Or do you really think you’re helping, doing what you're doing?!”

From the tree roots, the angel frowned, confused. Why were they talking about helping him? That wasn’t expected of them — that was the _Rit Zien’s_ duty, after all. They had no obligation to either...

But that’s what Balthazar and Rachel were fighting about… Or, mostly Rachel, as Balthazar turned away from her. She wasn’t one to be ignored however, and she circled around him and got right into his face. “Huh? Answer me! I want to hear it! I mean, you were all for helping Castiel in the beginning! You were the one at the hospital threatening the poor doctors if they didn’t give Castiel the best care.. You threatened Flagstaff, for Michael’s sake! You’re the one who stood guard at his bedside until he woke up, and then you just _stopped_. What happened, huh? What changed your mindset so quickly?”

“Fuck you,” Balthazar seethed through gritted teeth, flaring his wings in warning. She wasn’t quelled, jabbing a finger toward his face so fast it actually hit him in the cheek.

“I want to know, Balthazar!” she snapped. “I really do! I want to know what made you decide acting like you don’t care would help Castiel get better. I want to know why you think shunning your _best friend_ helps Castiel heal! Do you really think that _helps_?!”

“NO!”

From the tree roots, the angel ducked back down in surprise. Balthazar’s yell echoed amongst the trees, and it left the angel left breathless. He had never heard Balthazar yell like that before.

“Fuck you. _Fuck you_. Do you honestly think you and I can _help_ him?!” Balthazar yelled after that, and when the angel peered back out, he saw his brother waving his arms in frustration, his wings fluttering with the movement. “That any of us can help him?! How the _fuck_ are we supposed to help someone prone to catatonic states?! Who attacks things that aren’t even there! Who had his _wings clipped. Who doesn't show emotion._ Who was a _Leviathan’s_ chew toy for three years! You really think any of _us_ can help with that?!”

When he was finished with yelling, Balthazar started to pace, wings shifting and moving with his distress. From the tree roots, the angel was wide-eyed. Balthazar’s outburst had made him realized something: Balthazar was _scared_. Balthazar was scared because he thought he couldn’t help him. Even though he shouldn’t have been — he had no obligation to help — he _was,_ and the angel didn’t know what to make of it. (Balthazar wasn’t shunning him then?)

But Balthazar had also asked an important question: How could _anyone_ help him? _Rit Zien_ and Naomi included? He was all the things Balthazar had described and more. He was broken, and who knew if he could get better or even be fixed. He didn’t even know how to _live_.

“It doesn’t matter,” Rachel snapped and both Balthazar and the angel looked back at her. Her wings were trembling, brow furrowed up. “We _try_ our best, no matter how hard it is. We owe that to Castiel.”

The angel frowned. Why would she think they owed him…?

But the question was forgotten when Balthazar spoke up again.

“And what if that doesn’t work? What if we _can’t_ help?” he asked as he slowed to a stop, wings curling back up tight against his back again. “What if we _never_ get our brother back? What if he’s _always_ —”

 _— an animal,_ the angel finished when Balthazar cut off. But it didn’t upset him, something else Balthazar had said filling his thoughts. He sank back down into the hole, and looked down at his hands wrapped around his knees, working it over. That his family wanted their brother back. They wanted _Castiel_ back.

It was strange to realize it, but he had actually _never_ thought about that. He had thought they would be angry by what he had let happen to himself, and by how he had forgotten himself on the island not only as a warrior, but as a person. But wanting the person he had used to be back? He hadn’t considered it. He wasn’t even sure if he could be him again; he barely remembered _Castiel_ as it was.

But it made sense that that was something his family wanted. That had been something that had bothered Dean too, when they had first met on the island. He wasn’t the great powerful warrior Dean remembered and he had been disappointed by that, and it had been something the angel had felt incredibly guilty about. But eventually, Dean had stopped caring that he wasn’t _Castiel_ ; hadn’t care that he wasn’t a great warrior anymore. And though the angel had felt such shame and guilt for how far he had fallen and wasn’t sure how he was going to live with himself, with Dean, it had been _okay_. He had chosen to live for Dean, until he could figure out to live for himself…

But Dean was gone, and the angel had to figure out how he was supposed to live again.

His eyes slowly traveled back to Rachel and Balthazar on that thought.

Did he live for them? he wondered. Live to be the brother they wanted back? Did he try to be Castiel?

But... How?

It was Rachel that answered for him. “That’s what Naomi is here for,” she said to Balthazar quietly. She stepped close to him as he looked back at her. “She can bring him back to us.”

Balthazar’s brow furrowed, his wings rustling once. “Do you _really_ believe that?” he asked, a question the angel also wanted an answer to.

“We have to, don’t we?” Rachel replied, and Balthazar grimaced and looked away.

The angel meanwhile, looked back down at his hands.

He _would_ have to.

* * *

Naomi was in the room they used for meditation, sitting at the desk next to the windows that looked out at the forest. She was writing away in a leather bound book, but when she noticed him in the doorway, she paused and then set down her. As she folded her hands atop her desk, her blue eyes flicked over him, from his trembling wing down to his dirty, disheveled clothes. She sucked in a slow breath, and then nodded at him.

“Come in, Castiel.”

He did, slowly, keeping his wing dipped low in apology. He went to the seat in front of the desk and made himself sit down on it, despite how it left his back exposed. His hands clenched into the fabric around his knees before he hesitantly met her eye, suddenly nervous. There was no doubt he had disappointed her by running off, and he had to hope she hadn’t decided that he would never get better. She might ask the _Rit Zien_ to take care of him then, which was a terrifying thought.

Naomi didn’t say that however, or anything at all. She just looked at him for a long moment, blue eyes and body language giving none of her thoughts away. It was a look that reminded the angel of the first time they had met, not long after he had crawled his way out of the hole inside him. It had been back at the hospital, and he found himself thinking back to that night, and the words she had said to him then...

 _He had been having a nightmare. The same nightmare he always had: Dean, broken and bloody on the beach, the monster looming over him; Dean’s sad eyes turning to him, whispering_ I’m sorry. Goodbye, Cas. _And as hard as he tried, the angel couldn’t get back to him, couldn’t save him—_

 _He had woken up gasping, Dean’s name caught in his throat, half-lurching off the bed. He was yanked back, and confused, he had looked down and noticed the strap around his wrist that was tying him to the bed. That had made his heart leap — was it some sort of trap? Had he stumbled into one? — and he frantically began clawing at it, desperate to get it off. He could_ not _be trapped—_

_But then, some sort of sound had made him instinctively tense up. He looked around for the unknown threat, his eyes jerking to the strewn blankets on the floor, the couch across the bed, and then to the window of the room—_

_— where Balthazar was._

_The angel froze._

_Balthazar just looked at him for a long moment. Long enough for the angel to read what was in his brother’s blue eyes and feel his heart drop._

Wounded, weak, wrong, _they had said._ Animal.

_And then, Balthazar turned away._

_“Castiel.”_

_He jumped at the voice, before he was whipping around to confront the unknown threat. He hadn’t realized there was someone else in the room and that bothered him, but he froze again when he caught sight of her._

_Even though it had been years since he had seen one, he immediately recognized the markings on her gray suit, and even the poise she carried. She was an Elder, and the angel’s mouth dropped slightly. There was an Elder here? With him?_

_If she noticed his shock and confusion, she didn’t respond to it. She simply lifted her head slightly, her blue eyes slowly looking him up and down. Her gaze fell to his skewed hospital gown where his scars were on show, and then the ruffled, messy feathers on his injured wing. Then, she met his eyes, and he sat up straight instinctively._

_“You know what I am,” she asked then, voice cool. “Do you know who I am?"_

_The angel tensed. He_ didn’t, _and he should have. Didn’t every angel know who their Elders were?_

_She didn’t seemed bothered at least. “That is alright, Castiel. My name is Naomi. I am here to oversee all aspects of your recovery and rehabilitation.”_

_The angel slowly frowned at that. She was doing_ what?

_“It is unusual, I am aware,” Naomi said, noticing his confusion. “But these are not usual circumstances. It is a delicate situation we find ourselves in that can potentially have grave consequences for our entire host. Much of that will be determined by how quickly you recover. That is why I am here.”_

_The angel cocked his head in question — why did it depend on him? — but Naomi didn’t answer. She glanced away briefly, and whatever thought passed through her head made her wings rustle once. She gave no hints of what it might be, only turning back to him and then sitting forward slightly to look him directly in the eye. The angel tensed again, instinctively ducking his head out of respect._

_“Look at me, Castiel. I have something important I must tell you,” Naomi said, and he jerked his eyes up worriedly. Her blue eyes bored into his own, and he couldn’t look away. “The Leviathan is dead. It can no longer harm you.”_

_It was the_ last thing _he had expected to hear. The angel’s entire body went stiff in shock, his jaw dropping and eyes growing wide._

 _The… The monster was..._ dead?

 _“It is true. I have seen its body,” Naomi said, and the angel sucked in a breath. But he still couldn’t believe it. How was that_ possible?

 _He looked to Naomi imploringly, hoping the question was in his eyes. She seemed to notice, sitting back a little, her eyes narrowing slightly. “It was killed by a stake to its throat. It had been badly injured by a series of hunting traps as well_ , _which is why I am sure it was felled so easily.”_

 _The angel’s heart started to pound._ Traps? _Did she mean the traps he and Dean had found in the forest — the ones that Dean’s brother, Sam, had built? The monster couldn’t have stumbled into those accidentally either, not if he had then been killed. Did that mean…?_

 _He had to ask. He_ had _to. He had to know. He opened his mouth quickly, but the only sounds that came out of his throat were tiny little grunts. Frustrated, he tried again, picturing himself speaking. He had to imagine how his mouth forming words and what they would sound like when they left his throat. It worked. Somewhat._

_“Wh-Who— Who—”_

_Naomi frowned slightly, and the angel gritted his teeth. He didn’t give up though, trying again, the words dragged out of him. “Who— W-Who— K-killed?”_

_It was all he could get out, but thankfully, Naomi understood. The question made her nose wrinkle slightly, her wings rustling again. “The human who assisted in your rescue from what I understand.”_

_The angel’s heart leapt._

Dean _._

_Dean had killed the monster._

_He almost couldn’t believe it. When they had left him on the island, the angel had known what the monster had planned to do to Dean. He had wanted to hunt him, and when the monster turned his hunger on them, few escaped it._

_But Dean_ had. _He had_ killed _him. Dean, the only one of them who had ever been brave enough to stand up to the monster, had_ won _. He had done it. He had done it!_

 _And if he had killed him, maybe_ , maybe _—_

 _The angel’s entire body twitched violently. He had to find out_ now _. It was far easier this time to ask, the angel leaning forward in his eagerness. “D-D-Dean?” he croaked out, heart pounding with hope. “W-What h-happened to— to Dean?”_

 _Naomi’s eyes narrowed slightly. “The human?” she asked, and the angel nodded frantically. It felt like he would burst._ Please, _he thought to anyone who might have been listening._ Please.

_But when Naomi leaned back in her chair, and then shook her head, the angel’s heart dropped again. “I am sorry to be the one to inform you of this, Castiel,” she said slowly. “The Leviathan wounded him fatally. The human succumbed to his injuries.”_

_The world seemed to stop then._

_Dean… Dean had died? the angel thought._

_Dean had killed the monster, and he still had died?_

_A cold settled over the angel. He felt his throat clench up again, voice caught up in it. He felt himself lean back toward the bed, his eyes drifting down toward his chest. As he did, the hole inside of him swelled up and called to him again._

Nothing mattered, _it whispered._

_“Castiel. Castiel. Look at me.”_

_He lifted his eyes, and it was only through his years of training that he actually heard what she said. “Castiel, you’ve been through much. More than many angels have been through in their entire lifetimes. More than your family may be able to understand or come to terms with. The Leviathan did much to assure that.”_

_The angel tensed at that. He knew she was referring to his wings, but she easily could have been talking about the rest of him too. It made him glance toward the window where he had seen Balthazar; seen the look in his eyes._ Wrong _, they had said._ Wrong.

_“It has left you with a condition of the mind,” Naomi continued, and the angel looked back at her, confused. A condition of the mind? “One that is rarely heard of amongst our kind, and not known to have a cure. Knowing that, most Rit Zien would recommend to an elder that you be shown mercy.”_

_The angel stiffened, chest clenching tightly. His wing began to tremble, and he gripped the sheets of his bed._

_They… They were going to_ kill _him?_

_He had never even considered that possibility. He had thought he might be shunned and exiled for his wings, as no host wanted to be associated with an angel who had let that happen to them. (It was an insult, a disgrace, and Jannah would have never tolerated it. As different as the American host was, the angel had no idea if they felt the same way.) But to be killed because he was sick? Right after he had pulled himself out of the hole inside of him because Dean had begged him to live…?_

_“But you must not worry,” Naomi said then, not that that helped any. He was worried. Very, very worried. He didn’t fear death — he had wanted to die back on the island if it meant saving Dean, after all. But he didn’t want to die like_ this _. “I believe we can fix you, Castiel.”_

_The angel lifted his head sharply, confused._

_Fix him?_

_“Yes,” Naomi confirmed with another nod. “I believe you are strong enough to overcome your condition and rise above it, Castiel. You are the first of our kind to survive a Leviathan on your own; now you will be the first to overcome the condition it left you with. Do you want that, Castiel?”_

_The angel nodded. When the alternative was_ dying _, or being stuck with a condition he couldn’t cure, he wanted to be fixed, badly. He had promised Dean he would live too, even though he wasn’t sure how. Was this the way?_

_Naomi seemed to believe so, as she smiled at him. “You can be better, Castiel,” she said, and the angel had looked back at her nervously. “You will be better, I will make sure of it.”_

The memory faded, and the angel shivered, eyes falling down to his hands.

Naomi had worked with him since then, but it was difficult to say how much progress he had made, if any. He had run away the first time he had gotten truly scared, too, and nearly given everything up again. She had believed in him as much as Dean had, but what he had done to earn either of their convictions. Nothing.

He would try though, he thought. For his family, he would try. For Dean, he would try.

He lifted his eyes back to her, hoping the question was in his eyes, and that she would understand.

_Will you make me better?_

Naomi’s cool eyes regarded him for another long moment, thoughts unreadable. Then she lifted her head, and her lips slid toward the smallest of smiles.

“Yes. I will,” she said.

The angel nearly melted with relief, and he ducked his head quickly as a thank you. Naomi’s wings rustled once, and he looked back up, watching as she unfolded her hands and then spread them out along the table.

“Now, Castiel,” she said, he couldn’t look away from cool blue of her eyes. “ _Breathe_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _[Rit Zien](http://supernatural.wikia.com/wiki/Rit_Zien)_ (Enochian for "Hands of Mercy") are first mentioned in Supernatural 9x06. This class of angel serves as medics for the angelic host, treating and healing wounded angels. However, if an angel is beyond saving, the Rit Zien are in charge of giving them a mercy killing. They fill much the same role in this universe, but are naturally not magical. They are as well-trained as doctors, but specialize in angels.


	8. My Brother's Keeper, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, hi! Long time no see! It's been a weird couple months, but I'm hoping to get myself back on track here.
> 
> This chapter takes place before Chapters 6 and 7. In the timeline, it takes place after Chapter 1.

Balthazar was not really known for his patience.

That wasn’t to say he was like a foolish fledgling leaping out of the nest before his wings were strong enough to support him. He just simply believed in not having to wait for the things he wanted. And why did he have to wait? If he wanted a drink, he had his favorite wine sent up right away. A luxurious meal? He had a permanent reservation at his favorite restaurant. Sex? He knew quite a few angels, and a number of humans who knew how to be discreet, who were _always_ happy to indulge.

So when he wanted to be in Alaska _that second,_ nothing frustrated him more than the six-hour flight it was taking to get there. And a frustrated Balthazar was not a happy Balthazar. A not-happy Balthazar was an _agitated_ Balthazar, and an _agitated_ Balthazar was a—

“You’re pacing again,” Rachel said dryly where she was sitting in her seat, laptop and paperwork spread out before her on the table built into the wall.

Balthazar, who was indeed pacing up and down the jet plane’s main aisle, paused long enough to glare at her. He didn’t appreciate being called out, especially when said pacing was keeping him from re-earning the “impetuous” label Castiel had once given him. He was tempted to tell Rachel that too; instead, he found his glare being redirected when Hannah, sitting across from Rachel with her own table covered up like her boss’s, gave him a worried glance. And it was redirected _again_ when Gabriel, the entire length of his massive wings draped out along the sofa, let out a snort.

“Yeah, Bal,” he mocked around the lollipop bobbing up and down in his mouth, “You’re kind of ruining your reputation as the family narcissist right now.”

That was rich, coming from the former arch. But the remark hit a little too close to home for Balthazar’s taste, and his wings twitched. “Bite me, Gabriel,” he growled.

Gabriel’s grin grew wolfish, the feathers on his wings’ shoulders fluttering flirtatiously. “With pleasure.”

“Children, please, some of us are trying to work,” Rachel deadpanned, while Balthazar struggled not to roll his eyes. Gabriel’s grin grew as he sat forward in his seat, eyes on Rachel now.

“Oh, have you gotten around to emailing Ralph yet? Let me help you with composing that one. _Dear Raphael, how are you? I hope you can pull the dick out of your ass long enough to appreciate this message—”_

Rachel’s nose wrinkled, and she gave Gabriel a look that clearly said she had no intention of writing any of what he was saying. Gabriel ignored her, continuing on, adding choice words for the Vertus arch here and there that had Hannah hiding nervous giggles into her hand. (Only out of Jannah for a couple years now, Hannah still wasn't used to how they were around each other or what they said about the other hosts. It would have been downright blasphemous to talk in such a way in Jannah.) And while Balthazar normally enjoyed watching Gabriel’s efforts at ‘diplomacy’ and Rachel’s efforts to completely ignore him, this time he wasn’t in the mood.

He need to pace. And so he started up again, going up and down the aisle while Gabriel continued to narrate his letter out loud.

Pacing was good. Pacing kept Balthazar from storming up to Flagstaff, and demanding constant updates on Cassie’s health. Pacing kept him from pestering Anna, in the chair opposite Rachel, working on her own laptop to try to find out what she could about Castiel using her connections in the hacking community. (They appeared to be hitting against serious encryption on that front.) Pacing kept Balthazar from harassing the FBI agents for more information, or from creating a federal incident the moment he barged into the cockpit and started yelling at the pilots to fly faster or _else_.

Pacing was keeping from _exploding_ in frustration because the FBI had only given them a tiny sliver of information about their chosen brother and what had happened to him. They were doing a _lot_ for them, Balthazar recognized that — the FBI escorting them on a private jet for one. But he just wished all their answers didn’t mostly comprise of “We don’t have a lot of details yet.”

Castiel had been held captive somewhere, the FBI knew that. He had only recently escaped with his fellow captives, they knew that too. He was badly injured, to the point that Flagstaff was currently guiding several human doctors through treating him. That was it though — that was all Balthazar had to go on after nearly three years. _Three bloody years_.

For his chosen brother to have been found badly injured on a boat in the middle of the Gulf of Alaska, _thousands_ of miles from where he had originally disappeared… It boggled Balthazar’s mind, and left him with so many questions. How had Castiel ended up there? Had he been in Alaska this entire time? How had he gotten injured? Why had it taken so long for him to find him? And more importantly, who had him? And _why_?

The latter two questions was what frustrated Balthazar the most, and another reason that he needed to pace. Ever since Castiel had went missing, they had never been able to answer the who and the why, when they should have been able to. Considering the circumstances of his disappearance — as well as the enemies Castiel had accumulated over the years — there should have been _something_ from _someone_ : A ransom note, a threatening letter, some video from a militant organization proudly declaring that they had captured the world’s most famous angel.

But all that had been left since the day Castiel went missing was _nothing_ , like he had vanished into thin air. Sometimes Balthazar hoped that was what _had_ happened, because thinking about the other reasons he could have been taken were horrifying.

And now those thoughts were back in his head again, and he couldn’t pace fast enough to deal with them. The problem with being an historian was that he knew some of the reasons angels had been captured and kidnapped over the years, none of which were particularly comforting. Balthazar didn’t really want to imagine Cassie as someone’s pet, or being used in illegal fighting rings, or for someone’s _sick_ pleasure—

He paced up the aisle again, and then again. And then again, which was when Rachel hissed his name, and threw him a warning look. He ignored her, spinning around to go up the aisle again—

— at least until a new voice rang out and he stopped dead in his tracks.

“ _Balthazar._ ”

“Bollocks,” he cursed under his breath. Then he glanced over his shoulder to where she was, the curtain that separated the front from the back of the jet swaying closed behind her. There was no mistaking her, not with her perfect poise, perfect gray suit and perfectly groomed auburn wings and hair, with Ion and Esper right behind her. The one angel he tried to avoid, yet she was still always _there_.

Naomi.

“Balthazar,” she said again, and then nodded toward the two U.S. Marshals and one FBI agent standing and sitting in the front of the plane. Balthazar glanced at them too, seeing how they were watching them with wide eyes. It was quite possible they had never a) been around angels up close, or b) had seen them interact or react so similarly to humans. Which was something Naomi was alluding to when she said, “I believe our hosts would appreciate it if you would have a seat and made yourself comfortable.”

 _Control yourself,_ she was saying. It made Balthazar’s skin crawl that he could hear her voice so perfectly in his head. _Calm and center yourself. Do not let your emotions rule you. Remember your training._

_We have a reputation to uphold._

If it had been _anyone else_ , Balthazar would have told her to fuck off. He didn’t give a damn about reputation, he wanted to snarl. To conceal their emotions, to act like they were above the world and that nothing concerned them, all for the sake of image? That was what was expected in Jannah, but they weren’t _in_ Jannah. He would show whatever damn emotion he _wanted_ to—

Except it was Naomi.

It was Naomi, and the memory of all the talks they had about _his_ reputation. All the ways that had made it that much more difficult for Castiel to present the best image of their host to the Jannahian hosts. How Castiel might have never needed to go to Jannah so much and so often to convince the hosts of their ways, if angels like Balthazar weren’t how they were.

How Castiel had never told him any of that, and yet remained his friend anyway.

That thought was the reason Balthazar found himself sitting down in the chair across from Hannah, trying to hide his embarrassment by not looking at her or Gabriel. As he arranged his wings so they hung off the arms of the chair and he could sit comfortably, Rachel shot him an approving look. He wrinkled his nose, and glanced away.

“Do you have an update on Cassie?” Gabriel asked in Enochian, making all of them look from him and then just as quickly to Naomi. Balthazar forgot his anger, guilt and embarrassment in an instant when she nodded, her hands folding in front of her.

“His human doctors have stabilized his condition with our _Rit Zien’s_ guidance,” she replied, and Balthazar grew worried. Was that good? “She will continue to work with the human doctors until we arrive and she can take over his care. I ask that you continue to avoid creating any unnecessary distractions that might pull her from her work.”

Such a remark was most likely meant for him, but Balthazar couldn’t find in him to be embarrassed or annoyed by that. “Is he going to be alright?” he asked, everyone glancing at him and then right back to Naomi. She met his eyes as well. “How badly was he injured?”

As angels, they didn’t get hurt often; they were far too well-trained for that. Even Castiel, who had always been prone to throwing himself at enemies where another angel would have hesitated, had never came away with more than a few scrapes and bruises. That Castiel was injured at all, let alone that his condition had to be stabilized, unsettled Balthazar as much as the thought of brother missing had been. (It made him want to pace again, reputation be damned.)

Another thing that didn’t help? Having to seek reassurance that Castiel was okay from _Naomi_. The elder wasn’t exactly known for answering questions, giving minimal responses to each and every one he had ever had. _“We are doing everything we can to find him, Balthazar,”_ was perhaps his least favorite platitude.

She didn’t disappoint here, either.

“Our _Rit Zien_ will be able to provide more details on that in time,” she replied, her wings shifting slightly. Balthazar narrowed his eyes at that, suspicious. “But she believes he will recover.”

Everyone else let out quiet sighs, wings sagging in relief. Gabriel muttered _Thank fuck;_ Anna wondered out loud if they would be able to find out what happened to Castiel soon. Hannah, who had never actually met Castiel — only knew him from stories she had heard about him in Jannah — smiled hopefully at Naomi. Rachel’s eyes fell to her laptop screen, and Balthazar could tell she was trying hard not to react. Her hands, shaking over the keyboard, were the only hint to her emotions.

Balthazar didn’t join in with the others; he couldn’t, his eyes turning back to Naomi. There were so many things wrong with her response: as the elder responsible for the health and happiness of the host, Naomi would be just as informed as Flagstaff about Castiel’s condition. They didn’t have to wait on Flagstaff’s report, when Naomi was already here to give it.

But that wasn’t what was making Balthazar so suspicious. He had learned the elder’s tales over the years, and shifting wings was one of her biggest ones. It meant something was bothering her enough that it could get past her otherwise perfect composure. It meant there was something about Castiel’s condition that she didn’t like — and that clearly was something she wasn’t telling them about.

He narrowed his eyes at Naomi instead, silently asking, _What is it? What aren’t you telling us?_

She held his gaze for a long moment, but then her eyes slid away, and Balthazar bristled. He was about ready to accuse her of withholding info, only for Naomi to speak first.

“Rachel. Gabriel. If we could speak privately for a moment?”

Balthazar frowned at that, exchanging a quick glance with an equally surprised Rachel. She was quick to her feet though, murmuring _of course, Elder_ , and Gabriel was right behind her. Naomi gestured for them to head toward the back of the plane, Esper parting the curtain for them to pass.

At that, Balthazar bristled again. Was Naomi really planning to have a discussion about Castiel without _him_? Where she might discuss what was bothering her with them? No. Hell no. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

He got up so fast he startled Hannah, and he was through the curtain a moment later before Esper could react. The back of the plane wasn’t much different from the front: the same chairs, built in tables, and a U.S. Marshal standing guard. It was where Flagstaff was too, sitting alone in a small private room in the far back, telecommunicating with Castiel’s doctors via her tablet. Naomi was just in front of that room (since that was the area with the most room for them to stand) and had already started speaking to them. Balthazar made a beeline for them, catching the tail end of what Naomi was saying.

“— I am aware that the FBI has agreed to our request to inform the other hosts that Castiel has been found—”

Before Balthazar could make it to their little circle, Ion stepped right in front of him. Balthazar came to a halt, and turned a murderous glare toward Ion, who met it with a stoic expression. As one of Naomi’s chief bodyguards, he too was dressed impeccably as her, dark suit and wings neat and orderly. That didn’t disguise the fact that he was taller and larger than Balthazar, or that he was a highly-skilled fighter, rivaling Rachel in hand-to-hand combat. He knew how to take down someone in three moves or less, and Balthazar may or may not have been on the receiving end of that a few times when he had gotten angry at Naomi during their many _talks_.

Balthazar weighed his chances of getting past Ion _without_ getting a jab to the sternum for the effort, but his attention was soon drawn back to Naomi. He was close enough that he could hear her, and he caught her saying, “I would recommend holding off for now until we know more.”

Whatever that was about made Rachel tensed, mouth falling open. Gabriel had a similar reaction, his lollipop nearly falling out of his mouth as his eyebrows shot way up.

“Did you just say _not_ to tell the other archs about Castiel’s being found?” he said. Balthazar started, looking back at Naomi quickly.

What the hell kind of request was _that_?

Naomi nodded, seemingly unperturbed by their reactions as she folded her hands in front of her. “I believe until we know more about the situation we are in, and the danger to Castiel’s life has passed, it is the wisest course of action. Castiel’s safety and health should be our top priority.”

It sounded like words from an overly concerned elder, but Balthazar wasn’t buying it for a second. He frowned suspiciously, while Rachel and Gabriel exchanged glances.

Rachel was the first to look back. “I completely agree, Elder, of course, Castiel’s safety and health should be our top priority,” she said, her tone even and polite. Balthazar knew she was trying to avoid accidentally insult Naomi, as elders in her position weren’t exactly used to being openly questioned. “But why should that preclude us speaking to the other hosts? The archs — they have a right to know about Castiel’s return. I am obligated to tell them. They would be… _insulted_ if we kept this news to ourselves.”

“There’s one word for it,” Gabriel muttered, arms folding over his chest, lollipop held between his fingers like a cigarette. “ _Royally pissed off_ would be my choice. ‘No way to polish that turd’ would be another. We’d need a damn good reason to keep this to ourselves, Naomi.”

Balthazar really wanted to hear that reasoning for himself, or at least have someone point out the obvious: Even though she was an elder, Naomi had no say in interhost relations, nor was it her place to give advice. Elder Joshua was the one who advised Rachel (and since Castiel’s disappearance, Gabriel) on matters between the hosts. Even as unconventional as their host was — no arch; decisions made by an elected council — the elders still had an hierarchy between them, and for Naomi to assume another’s role was unheard of. And this was clearly why, since she was giving _terrible_ advice.

Castiel was _Castiel,_ after all. He wasn’t just their brother, just a member of their host — he was _all_ of Jannah’s brother, a member of all hosts. Though Cassie had always downplayed it, ever since he had won the war, he had brought huge political influence and wealth to angels, something they hadn’t had in several centuries. It had made him the de-facto leader of all of them, a position that had last been held by _Michael._ And considering how _he_ was remembered in their history…

“We should know more about what Castiel has been through first,” Naomi said calmly. “He may not be ready to meet the demands the hosts will make of him.”

Neither Gabriel or Rachel looked convinced; Balthazar didn’t blame them. “That will be Castiel’s decision, but the other hosts may assist us in figuring out what happened to him,” Rachel replied with a slight shake of her head. “In the meantime, we can keep any requests for meetings or appearances to a minimum.”

“Stick a webcam on him,” Gabriel added as he popped his lollipop back in his mouth. “That’ll probably be enough appearances for them.”

Naomi’s wings shifted at that, her blues flickering between them. Balthazar couldn’t tell if she was bothered by the fact that they were shutting down her every excuse, or if she was going to have to show her hand. Because not for one second did he believe all of her concern was for Castiel’s well-being. No, there was more to it than just that.

As if reading his mind, her blue eyes moved to him. Though it was never easy to decipher Naomi’s thoughts, he had a feeling she didn’t like that he was eavesdropping. With Rachel and Gabriel needing better reasoning, however, she really had no choice but to deal with his presence.

 _Good,_ Balthazar thought, as he watched Naomi turn back to the others. No hiding things now.

“Appearances are a concern. _The_ concern,” she said then. Gabriel lifted an eyebrow while Rachel frowned, and Balthazar narrowed his eyes. Naomi spread her hands out then, voice slowing down as if she was talking to fledglings. “Castiel was severely injured. We need to take into account those injuries... And how they might be perceived.”

While Rachel tensed and Gabriel lifted his other eyebrow, Balthazar frowned again. He hadn’t thought about that, but Naomi was right: Angels so _rarely_ got injured that to get seriously hurt was seen as weakness. They weren’t strong or agile enough, and therefore weren’t fit to lead or even be trusted; in extreme cases, they were exiled from their hosts. It was a backwards way of thinking, and a completely impossible standard to live up. And worse, in Balthazar’s opinion, it ignored their history, when battle scars had once been a point of pride.

But the reason Naomi was bringing it up made Balthazar grow very angry, very quickly.

“That’s what you’re concerned about?” he spat dangerously, pushing past Ion. “ _Reputation?_ ”

Ion’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder to hold him still while Naomi’s eyes flicked over to him again. “It’s something we should always be concerned about,” she said, a hint of anger in her voice. “Especially _you_ , Balthazar.”

Normally, Balthazar would have been quelled by that, but this time, he didn’t even flinch. He was too angry to care; too angry by what she was implying. _“_ You’re questioning Castiel’s reputation!” he accused, wings flaring in his anger. “Out of all of us?! To say that he was less than because of some _archaic_ Jannahian standard—”

Naomi shook her head at him, turning back to a confused-looking Rachel and Gabriel. “I am not questioning Castiel’s _reputation_ ,” she stressed and Balthazar snorted in disagreement. “But we know how Jannah will perceive those injuries. We know how they will perceive his captivity. You know what they may do if they believe he is in any way compromised. And you know who they’ll blame. _Again_.”

Balthazar sneered — Castiel wasn’t _compromised,_ he wanted to snap — but he hesitated when when he noticed Rachel grow tense. Her lips pursed, and her wings drew up tightly against her back as she stood up straighter. It was the only sign that she was uncomfortable, even though her voice was uneven as she murmured, “They’ll blame our host.”

Balthazar let out a hiss of frustration, wings rustling in his discontent. “Castiel won’t let them,” he told her, but she gave him a look that said _if they turn against Castiel, he won’t be able to stop them._

Which is exactly what he said, to Rachel and Naomi both. “Who cares? We tell Jannah to fuck off then. We’ve done it once before, we can do it again.”

Naomi looked back at him, her narrowed eyes the only hint of her frustration.

“Our host _will_ care. Castiel _will_ care,” she replied, and Balthazar sneered again, wanting to deny that. “And exile will not be easier this time around, for _any_ of us.”

Balthazar wanted to deny that too. So what if they were cut off from their families again? So what if were denied their history and culture again? So what if Jannah fell back into its old ways and isolated itself from the rest of the world again? What if there was no changing Jannah, despite what Castiel had hoped? Their host would just get over it like they had the _first_ time; they would just survive without them, like they had before—

“She’s right.”

Surprised, Balthazar whipped his head around to look at Rachel. She met his gaze apologetically, and though Balthazar could see anger in her eyes — about the fact the archs would do this to them again; that they might turn against Castiel of all people — there was also grim acceptance. Rachel was, after all, a politician, and she had to accept things she didn't like all the time. “Castiel would not want that for us. And he would not want to be the cause for it either.”

This time, Balthazar did flinch. It was one thing to hear from that from Naomi; quite another from Rachel. It didn't make him want to admit the truth any less — that Naomi was _right_ — and he still opened his mouth to protest. He wanted to say that they could just tell _everyone_ to fuck off and change their ways already. They convinced Castiel of that too; if he didn't have influence with the archs, he would still have it with their kind, not to mention the _world_ —

Rachel shot him a warning glance, and Balthazar shut his mouth. Frustrated, he looked away, fists clenching at his side.

 _Reputation,_ he thought. Why did it always come down to reputation?

Castiel wouldn't have wanted that either.

At least there was some consolation: Despite their worries, no one could truly question Castiel’s reputation and expect it to stick — not with everything he had done for angels everywhere. And Balthazar couldn’t wait to prove that to Naomi, and the archs and whomever else dared believed his chosen brother could ever be compromised. No matter what he had been through — no matter what injuries he suffered — Castiel was, to his very core, goodand strong and a great leader and the _best_ of them all, and nothing would ever change that.

And if their host was still exiled, Balthazar was still of the opinion that they should just say “fuck them.”

Despite his conviction, Balthazar was left irritated, wishing they could settle this here and now. The fact that he couldn’t made him want to pace again.

He looked back when Rachel said _What would you recommend, Elder?_ and Naomi lifted her head up high. A small, if triumphant, smile crossed her lips, and it made Balthazar want to sneer at her again. She didn't have to rub it in, dammit.

“Time,” she said briskly, “Time to find out what happened, and time to ensure Castiel is well-prepared for the hosts’ scrutiny once he has recovered. He is still beloved by our people, and with the right words, he can easily garner their sympathy and support.”

Rachel and Gabriel shared a glance again, while Balthazar tensed at that. That phrasing bothered him: Naomi _working_ with Castiel. It brought to mind the time she had decided to work with _him_ in the early days of Castiel’s disappearance. And he had not liked the angel she had started to turn him into...

The thought almost had him shuddering — he didn't like to remember the days it had felt like he was more of a robot — and he almost missed Naomi’s response when Rachel asked her if that would really be enough.

The elder opened her mouth to reply, but there was a beat where nothing came out. Where her eyes briefly grew distant, and her wings shifted ever so slightly.

“I believe it will be,” she finished in the next beat, while Balthazar stared at her.

“Well, if it's between exile or not exile, I know what I choose,” Gabriel joked, and Rachel let out a small sigh. While she muttered something about stopping Hannah from sending any emails, and Gabriel joked about the letters he couldn't write anymore, Balthazar never looked away from Naomi. And when the elder’s gaze shifted to meet his, he narrowed his eyes at her.

 _Are you hiding something?_ he asked silently, but she only looked away from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are always appreciated.
> 
> Follow me on Tumblr [here.](jkateel.tumblr.com)


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